


80 Ways to Say You Care

by midoritakamine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 80 prompts challenge, Multi, Tags will only reflect content of fives most recent chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-08 17:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 20,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10392735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midoritakamine/pseuds/midoritakamine
Summary: 80 prompts. 80 ships.Most recent chapter: Sauna + NZFin





	1. 1. Bullet + AmeEst

**Author's Note:**

> I found a list of 80 prompts and I decided to write. 80 ships. For 80 prompts. I am gonna die before I finish this.  
> Since tagging every ship/chara would be really annoying to sift through, I'll only tag for the five most recent chapters and leave what the most recent chapter's prompt and ship are.

“Are you sure you know how to shoot that thing?”

Eduard is very sure that Alfred does not know how to shoot that thing, but the only response he receives is a thumbs up and toothy grin. It is not reassuring. Despite his better judgement, he doesn’t inquire further and he allows Alfred to continue loading the revolver.

Alfred’s older brother got him the revolver over Christmas, and it took compromising between Alfred and Eduard for the latter to agree that he can keep it. So long as he took lessons for it. Lessons that, as Eduard sets his chin in his palm and turns his eyes away to glance his Twitter feed, will be absolutely useless. He’s already fumbled and dropped three of the bullets, and when he took his first shot he missed the target completely.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you’re aiming at something you want to shoot!” Alfred’s instructor barks. He stands rigid as a soldier, and his eyes are narrows into such slits Eduard can’t tell what color they are. For all his intimidating aura, he still stands at least half a foot shorter than Alfred, which is probably the reason he laughs and waves a hand at the instructor’s demands.

“I can handle it, coach!” Alfred winks at him, and Eduard purses his lips.

‘Coach’ growls and sticks his hand out. “Give it to me.” Alfred complains and looks at Eduard for backup, but Eduard just smiles and gestures to the instructor. “Even your boyfriend agrees you shouldn’t be handling this weapon! Give it!”

An argument ensues, and the argument takes so long that Eduard’s able to watch a new video game LP one of the people he’s subscribed to uploaded. He tunes the argument out mostly, because if he knows one thing about rooming with, and subsequently dating Alfred, it’s that arguments with him last until he wins. Alfred always wins, or must maintain the illusion that his point is the best point. When it comes to things like what to order for dinner, it’s funny. When it comes to whether or not he should be holding and waving a revolver willy-nilly around a gun store, it’s slightly terrifying.

“I grew up shooting guns,” complains Alfred in another plea to his instructor. “Me an’ my brother Matthew, we’d go hunting with our older brother! Arthur showed us how to load and shoot. I know what guns are!” As if to prove his point, he tries to spin the gun around on his finger. It falls off and clatters to the floor. All three of them inhale sharply, but luckily the safety got switched on during Alfred’s fumbling so it rests peacefully on the cement.

Alfred’s instructor grabs a fistful of his shirt and drags him down to his height. “What’d you shoot while hunting? Rifles?” Alfred nods, puffing out his chest despite the awkward position. The instructor sighs through his nose. “Rifles and revolvers are different types of guns. You might be a deadeye shot with a rifle, but a revolver is different. Same with a pistol. Just ‘cause you’re Billy the Kid hunting deer doesn’t mean you’re the wild west’s best shot with a revolver.”

He releases Alfred’s shirt and kneels down to retrieve the gun. Instead of looking at Alfred, he looks at Eduard. “What do you want for this? Average retail’s just above five hundred.”

“You take it for five hundred even?” Eduard doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Take the bullets for free.”

“Sold.”

The second they’re out the door, Alfred says, “Don’t say you told me so.”

_ I told you so _ , Eduard thinks as he smiles and nods.


	2. 2. Tempo + SpAus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True irony is SpAus was my first OTP and I haven't written for them until now.

A conference at Russia’s house. How utterly  _ delightful _ .

The only way Austria knows how to relax is at his piano, so to it he goes. Slowly, of course; the piano room is quite a ways down the hall and he doesn’t fancy winding himself before he gets there. His slow trip allows him to admire the works of art hanging on his walls. Many Austrian greats’ portraits hang upon these walls, and it warms his chest when he rests his eyes upon their portraits. Sure, they’re no longer around for him to discuss works with, but forever are they immortalized upon his wall to revive fond memories.

The portraits of them pass soon enough, and the final piece of art hanging on his wall brings back a more bittersweet memory. He narrows his eyes at it, forcing disdain. He makes a quick note to ask Hungary for help taking it down the next time she visits.

Pushing past the doorway, me inhales deeply at the scent of the garden floating in through the opened windows. He never keeps the windows of the piano room shut unless it storms. The flowers and fresh air always stir up his creativity, and it’s almost with a giddy spring in his step that he makes his way towards the piano.

Playing always passes time so quickly. When he first presses a key on the piano, planning to practice a Tchaikovsky piece to please Russia and his boss on the trip, it’s bright and sunny out, just after lunch. When he lifts his fingers from the keys, the sun has set and the only illumination are from the hanging lights and the moon shining in through the windows.

“You’ve improved, Austria.”

He all but jumps out of his skin at the voice. As soon as he realizes who it belongs to, his gut twists and the painting hanging on the wall just before his piano room resurfaces in his mind.

“What do you need?”

A melodious laugh. He always cursed Spain for having something that sounds so much sweeter than a Beethoven piece. “I too am going to see Russia. Hungary told me you’re going as well, and I thought-”

“That we could go together?” Austria bites his tongue after he says it. He always had a habit of completing Spain’s thoughts. He wishes he was rid of it by now, and yet…

“Exactly!” He’s too cheery, too sunny for the night and Austria wants to shield his eyes from Spain’s glory. How dare he.

He refuses to turn around, and he fixes the piano keys in a hard stare. “No thank you.”

“Roderich.” His eyes squeeze shut when Spain’s footsteps get louder and closer until a hand sits on his shoulder. He almost jerks away, but that would be too undignified for somebody of his standing so he remains in place. “Please?”

“I said-”

“Do you remember how to dance?”

Austria cranes his neck to give Spain a flat look. “Pardon?”

Spain’s lips twist in a forlorn, almost lonely smile as he steps back and spins on his heel a few times. He doesn’t say anything, instead dancing to an invisible tempo, an invisible orchestra that Austria wishes he could be free-spirited enough to listen to as well. Spain is much too fast a dancer, too rapid and sensual. He isn’t compatible with Austria’s dancing style, slow and purposeful and exact. They clash too much dancing, and in blunt amusement Austria chalks up this contrast to be a perfect example as to why their marriage failed.

Spain is too much. Austria is too little.

Despite this, he turns his back to the quietly dancing Spain and he places his fingers on the keys again. Even if Austria cannot supply what Spain needs, perhaps he could show him what he has to offer.

To Austria’s tempo, Spain dances. To Spain’s dance, Austria plays.


	3. 3. Wind + VietBelg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked my QP (who is Vietnamese) which a good name for Vietnam would be. He suggested Anh Thư, which translates to I think brave or strong, which Vietnam is described as being.

Paper airplanes never make it too far off a gust of wind alone.

Emma knows this, her brothers have informed her uselessly a number of times, but she still stands on the back porch and meticulously folds the paper into the correct shape. Under her breath she hums a little song, the chirping and calling of the birds her musical accompaniment. If she considered herself any more of a dreamer than she already does, she’d liken herself to a Disney princess. Sending love letters in the shape of paper airplanes over the fence of her backyard and into the great beyond, singing to her lover in hopes she’d hear her.

“Again, Emma?”

She doesn’t have to turn around to know that’s her older brother’s voice. She makes the final crease in the paper and holds her newest creation up proudly. “Does this look sturdy enough, bro?”

He sighs through his nose, and the wind carries the smoke from his cigarette into her field of vision. It fades in a flash, but she keeps on smiling as she stands and makes her way into the yard. The grass tickles her bare feet, the dew cool, almost uncomfortable. She ignores it and keeps walking, all the way to the start of her brother’s flower garden. She rocks back on her heels, craning her arm as she waits for the wind.

She stands there for several minutes. Her arm begins to get tired, but she ignores the tingling sensation. In the distance her brother’s boots comes down the steps and into the yard, and he begins to follow her. He stops a few feet behind her, the smoke from his cigarette wafting through the air and to her. Still, she stays in position.

“How long you gonna keep this whole thing up? Throwing letters over the fence in front of my garden?”

“Until she gets it.”

When he finishes speaking, the wind picks up strongly. Her hair gets in her face and the smoke smell from her brother chokes her lungs but she giggles giddly. She counts down in her head, waiting for the perfect moment. Not yet… not yet… she steps barefoot into the dirt, ignoring her brother complaining, and she chucks the paper airplane as hard as she can. The wind catches beneath its wings and it floats gently over the fence and out of sight. She stares at the sky where she last saw it and smiles fondly, sadly.

She feels her brother’s scarf hit her back, falling half over her shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, and the smoke smell fades until she realizes she’s alone again. She pulls the scarf around her shoulders and buries her face in it. Even if the cigarette smoke makes her sick, it’s comforting. Her brother always knows how to make her feel better. Still, deep in her gut, Emma wishes this was not his scarf.

Emma wishes for the floral scent that lingers on a light green ao yem. She wishes for the smell of pho drifting from the kitchen, covering up the scent of waffles from breakfast. She wishes for small hums of thought, for strong arms to embrace her, and for thin, soft lips to press kisses on her cheeks. She wishes for the ever so rare smile that gave her comfort when nothing else will.

All of her wishes she writes down on paper, and all of her wishes she folds into paper airplanes. One day, she thinks. One day, perhaps Anh Thư will read them. And maybe one day, a paper airplane will come sailing back.


	4. 4. Obsession + AmeriPan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else hoping Umi's next event card will not look like the absolute disaster that Riko's last event card was? Kiku probably is.

It starts with one song.

Alfred never considered playing this game until he saw how much dedication Kiku puts into it, how often he blows off movie nights because his “best girl”, or whatever he calls it, is a “ranking card”, or whatever he says. If Kiku wants to pay attention to the game instead of his roommate, fine. If Kiku loves the pretty girls more than his roommate, doubly fine. If Kiku thinks a fictional blue-haired girl means more than the movie date with his roommate, triply fine. Alfred hesitates; is there such thing as triply fine? His mental wandering causes him to mess up his combo and he yells in frustration. This game  _ sucks _ ! How can Kiku even stand it?

“Kiku!” A few seconds pass before said man opens his door and pokes his head out of the crack. He looks sleep-deprived, and Alfred glances at the clock. It’s about two in the morning, so of course he’d look tired. He himself probably looks the same. Ignoring this, he gestures to his phone and says, “This game you’re so in love with is so hard!”

Pulling the door open further, Kiku steps out and latches it behind him. He’s absolutely silent as he makes his way across the room, his stocking feet making no noise. If Alfred had not been a brave guy (who cries and nearly pisses himself at horror movies, but who doesn’t do that? It’s not like Kiku blew him off  _ again _ tonight for this game...), he would have thought Kiku is a ghost and ran screaming.

“What’s the problem?” Kiku kneels down next to the bean bag chair Alfred is lounging in, and he leans over his shoulder to look at the screen. Staring back at him is a red-haired anime girl with golden eyes, saying something about sports in Japanese. Kiku appears to be doing his best not to smile and give away his amusement, and Alfred feels annoyance swell in his chest. “Oh, Love Live again?”

Alfred whines and kicks his legs childishly. “The one by this girl and the other redhead, the rude-to-nice one, I can’t get it.” As if to demonstrate, he taps on the live show option and pulls up the song. He’s about to retry it before Kiku’s eyes, but a hand enters his field of vision and grabs the phone. “Hey!”

Kiku waves at him slightly. “Don’t worry, I’ve beaten it before. I can get it for you.” He nods slightly at Alfred before his eyes lock on the screen. The phone sits a bit awkwardly in his hands, but he smoothly selects the blue-themed team and taps the button to start the live show. Not knowing what else to do, Alfred hovers over his shoulder and watches as Kiku’s thumbs become a frenzied mess to the beat of the song.

It’s over too soon, and with a gaping mouth Alfred watches as the words “Full combo” flash on the screen, illuminating a satisfied grin on Kiku’s face. It’s rare to see him to expressive, and for several seconds he stares at him as background music from the game fills the silence. Kiku offers the phone to Alfred and smiles. “There.”

“Dude, how?”

Cryptically, he replies, “Much practice has benefitted me and honed my skills, Alfred.”

“Sooooo… it’s an obsession?”

Kiku avoids his eyes, his smile becoming more nervous than confident. “Well, some people might call it that. I’ve been playing since it first released in Japan, and then I installed the English version as well to help teach myself alongside my studies. It’s kind of a way of life for me now, if that makes sense.” His head lolls back and forth in search of something, and Alfred waits patiently for the answer. He hasn’t spoken to Kiku all day, so listening to him speak makes him a little excited. “My games are like your hamburgers. I cannot give them up.”

“Can I make a deal with you?” Kiku nods, intrigued, and Alfred laughs. “You keep our movie dates, and I’ll get more into this game! That way we can talk about it together and I can show you how much better of a player I am eventually!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at AmeriPan but it holds a very special place in my heart as my fave America ship.


	5. 5. Death + PruHun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Untagged warnings:  
> \- character death  
> \- hospitals / IV mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say I'm sorry but I'm mad at myself and apologizing to myself is the last thing I will do.

The first time she ever met him, he told her his name and that he was too awesome to die. The last time she ever met him, he told her his name and that he was too in love to die.

Being six years old and getting approached by the class eccentric was never what Elizabeta wanted. She did not want him to declare his name (it’s Gilbert), tell her that he has an incurable disease (the same disease that made his hair and skin so pale), and that he’s going to beat it because his natural powers of super awesomeness would stop it before it ever hurts him ( _ Is that even possible _ ? Elizabeta wondered). He subsequently chokes on blood and gets escorted to the nurse’s office. As he leaves, that shitty brat Vladimir sneers that for a vampire hater, she seems to not mind being covered in somebody’s blood. She subsequently beats him up and gets escorted to the principal’s office.

Gilbert becomes a second thorn in her side (alongside Vladimir, but at least Gilbert is likable. Vladimir sucks through and through.) for the entirety of their school lives. He’s always there, talking to her and annoying her and following her. He always has a snippy remark about how she’d suit the male uniform better, and one day she goes to school in the male uniform she borrows from her boyfriend Roderich, and Gilbert is so stunned into silence he doesn’t make fun of her for another week.

Eventually, Gilbert stops coming to school.

He almost misses their last school dance, but when Roderich’s chronic leg problems act up and prevent him from attending as Elizabeta’s date, she marches in four inch heels and a red satin dress the half a mile between the school and Gilbert’s house to bang on his door and demand he get dressed in a suit. “You’re my date,” she tells him, and she can’t tell if it’s from his illness or embarrassment but his face turns red and he chokes. Blood comes away from his mouth on the back of his hand, and she compromises for dancing by herself in their living room, Gilbert watching her from the couch and applauding her whenever a song ends.

“You might just dance better than I do!” He crows. Elizabeta smiles and tells him she knows for a fact she does.

They both graduate, and she stops by his house a few days before she’s set to move to England for university. His younger brother answers the door and grimaces. He tells her that Gilbert’s in the hospital, and her heart sinks so far into her gut that she doesn’t know when she starts running. His brother is faster, and he grabs her shoulder to take her to his Jeep. “I’ll drive you there,” he says, and she complains about traffic. What’s the point of a vehicle if running would be faster? He doesn’t reply, and instead loads her into the Jeep.

She leaves Ludwig in the hospital lobby and runs up four flights of stairs. She trips two and a half up and almost goes tumbling down head-first, but she recovers and continues on. She gets lost on the fourth floor and asks a nurse for his room, and before the nurse can finish speaking she’s already on the move. The door to Gilbert’s room flies open and he screams like a child at her flushed red face and messy hair. After realizing who she is, he asks, “Why are you here?”

She doesn’t know how to answer, so she doesn’t. Instead and marches to his bedside and leans over, hugging him tight against her chest. One of his arms is hooked up to an IV so he can’t move it, but the other reaches up, his hand resting on her shoulder blade. She pulls back and gives him a hard stare, chastising him for not telling her he got worse.

“Didn’t I tell you when we were kids?” He flexes his thin arm and grins, and she wants so badly to cry at the pathetic sight in front of her but she holds it in and smiles back at him. “I’m not gonna die because the doctors say it’s incurable. I’m Gilbert, and-”

“You’re too awesome to die, hm?”

Gilbert grabs her hand and shakes his head. He doesn’t look at her when he says, “I’m too in love to die on you, Elizabeta.”

A year later Elizabeta sits down on the plane to England. The flight attendant compliments her on her wedding ring, and weakly she smiles. “Are you going to meet him?”

She shakes her head. “Not today. One day yes, but not today.”


	6. 6. Winter + SuFin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn have I been absorbed in watching RE7 let's plays. Also Bandori. Still finding a lot of writing inspo in bursts which is why I write so many chapters in one day, then vanish for like 4/5 days.
> 
> Who else checks what happens to Sweden's Lucia goat each year? It's one of my favorite holiday traditions, seeing how it's destroyed.

“What’s your favorite season?”

Sweden isn’t quite sure how to answer such a casual question from his boss, so he shrugs noncommittally and returns to filing papers.  Löfven doesn’t usually speak to him, and on second thought he doesn’t usually speak to Löfven. One of the staff more often than not passes word along between them about political happenings, new bills to sign, the economic relations, and most importantly which countries Löfven wants Sweden to get cozy with.

Why should his personal relationships end up political business? He’s used to it after so many thousands of years, but it still irks him how whichever humans in charge of his home can dictate who he smiles at and who he glares at. Though if asked, both categories would probably think themselves in the latter.

Smiling is hard. Maybe he should ask somebody to help practice in the next few weeks. His government will be taking a weeklong break for Lucia which gives him ample opportunity to phone somebody and ask for assistance. As soon as he gets home, he decides, will he send somebody a message. Not Denmark. Anybody but Denmark. Irritation makes him work faster, and his boss says nothing the rest of the day. He bids Löfven goodbye and a happy Lucia a few hours later, and out into the cold snowy air he steps. He tightens the scarf around his neck and locks the door behind him.

Waiting for him, surprisingly, is Finland. Hanatamago’s head pokes out from the top of the heavy coat he’s wearing, and she yips excitedly at the sight of him. Finland smiles just as brightly. “Happy Lucia! I hope that goat of yours stays in tact this year. I’ve been wanting to see it again.”

Characteristically, Sweden stays silent. He does reach out and pet Hanatamago, his chest warming at how eagerly she pushes her head into his hand. Finland’s slight flinch at the outreached hand does not escape him though, and almost shamefully he drops his hand and holds it against his chest as if it were injured. Perhaps emotionally it is. He stares at Hanatamago; at least she’s never scared of him.

As expected, once he catches on Finland begins waving his hands. “Aah, no no! I didn’t get scared! I’m kind of used to it by now, don’t worry. It’s just very cold!” Cold doesn’t account for why he’d flinch at Sweden’s hand, but he lets it go and takes Finland’s explanation at face value. Moving on quickly, he goes down the steps into the street, Hanatamago’s head bouncing with each one taken. Over his shoulder, Finland says, “Well, do you wanna go?”

“Go where?” Sweden comes down the steps at a slower pace. His brain works overtime, trying to make sure every inch he moves is calm and non-threatening. He doesn’t want to scare Finland. That’s the last thing he ever wants to do; if Löfven ever told him to be aggressive or rough with Finland, he already knows what he’d say to that. Even without Sealand there to copycat and repeat them, Sweden doesn’t fancy thinking those words over.

Finland, cute as ever, rolls his eyes and gestures vaguely to the east. “The goat! I wanna go see if your citizens have stolen or burned it yet this year. I have a running bet with Estonia this year that it’d be taken by the tenth, and I don’t wanna have to pay for my vodka next time I go to his house!” He stares at Sweden for a few seconds before his mildly annoyed look turns bright and he laughs. It’s a noise grander than music and Sweden has to hide his face to keep Finland from seeing how tinted his cheeks become.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, stepping in front of Finland and thus getting his burning cheeks out of sight, “I’ll take ya. C’mon.” Ever in a rush, Finland almost sprints down the snowy sidewalk laughing. His arms curl over his chest to hold Hanatamago safely, spinning and jogging backwards to he can look at Sweden while they make their way through the crowds and towards the famous Lucia goat.

_ Winter _ , Sweden decides as Finland sticks his tongue out to catch a snowflake.  _ Winter is my favorite season _ .


	7. 7. Jump + SeyMona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... SeyMona. My favorite F/F ship. I will never get tired of how cute these two are, and I will never not be sad at how little there is for them. Please @ fandom, give my lesbians love.

“Dear, are you stupid?” Monaco does not often find herself saying such things to anybody other than France most days, but today is not most days. Today is a date, and today she cannot fathom why said date wants to jump off such an impossibly high cliff into the sea below.

“No?” Seychelles replies with an unsure tone, but her smile does not disappear at the accusation. Instead, she says, “C’mon, Monaco! You agreed to visit me and do what I wanted on this date. I wanna go over that,” she gestures eagerly to the cliff, and Monaco swallows dryly, “with you!” She punctuates it by interlacing their fingers together. Her skin is warm, palms and fingertips rough from all the work she does.

Monaco has no qualms about holding her hand. She loves holding Seychelles’ hand. What does doesn’t love is holding Seychelles’ hand while jumping off a horribly high cliff into deep salty water where deep unknowns lurk. Cautiously, she peers over the edge. The water is a perfect clear blue, and there are no signs of sharp rocks to land on, so surely this couldn’t be that bad?

Staring back at her with wide, begging eyes, Seychelles tries to tug her closer to the edge of the cliff, but Monaco feels another waves of fear surge in her chest and she feebly attempts to dig the bare heels of her feet into the hard rock surface. Seychelles picks up on the hesitation and stops, though her expression drops. Monaco’s heart twists with a tinge of guilt, but her brain applauds her for not leaping to her death willy-nilly.

Seychelles twists her lips in a pout, releasing Monaco’s hand to cross her arms. “What can I do to convince you? This is what I wanted to do today. I went to that theatre production with you and France for our last date, but with him there it wasn’t even that much like a date-”

“You told me you liked the play, though.”

“I did like it,” admits Seychelles after a moment. “I just… like time alone with you more, without France there. If he hadn’t of been there, that would’ve been a perfect evening. And well, he’s not here now. The sun is shining,” again, she waves her arm, this time to the sky, “and the water is clear as day. I want to enjoy something with you that I suggested. You never do anything exciting and free-spirited like this, and even if you aren’t opposed to it you make people play you in a round of poker, and nobody can win against you!”

It’s probably inappropriate timing, but Monaco says, “Really?” Seychelles likely didn’t mean to stroke her ego, but hearing that she’s unbeatable at her own game (except perhaps to Macau… last time they played, they tied) makes her chest swell and she puffs it out proudly. She can’t miss how Seychelles glances down at her bikini top, but against the bright shining of the sun the flustered expression on her face could just be from the heat.

“That’s not my point!” Seychelles grabs her hands again, and she squeezes them as hard as she can without hurting. “Please? I… I wanna see you let loose without bringing cards into the equation.”

Her voice is almost too soft to be heard over the breeze and crashing waves, and the sweet look in her face makes Monaco blush. If Seychelles is good at anything, it’s charming people. And damn her for it but Monaco smiles and the hesitation from before slowly melts from her body. She squeezes Seychelles’ hands back and briefly nods.

“On one condition.” Seychelles nods wildly, and Monaco wants so badly to lean in and kiss her. So she does. When she pulls back, she smiles at the surprise on her face before saying, “Okay, that’s that. Now, let’s toss ourselves to our deaths!”


	8. 8. City + RoMerica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to Juju. Please enjoy this and know I haven't given up on the soulmates AU for these two. I'm just... very lazy.

“Alfred?”

“Yeah, Lovino?”

“When I said I wanted to go to Rome, I didn’t mean  _ goddamn Rome, Georgia _ !”

Peering over the rim of the restaurant menu, Alfred raises a brow and shrugs. “You never said what Rome you wanted to go to. Did you mean Rome in Maryland? Or did you mean Rome City, Indiana?”

Lovino sets the menu down on the table, and soon after, he sets his forehead down none too gently as well. It makes such a thud that the two other couples in the restaurant, plus the waiters not serving anybody look at them. Lovino couldn’t give less of a rat’s ass who looks at him right now, for he’s far too irritated over just how much of a complete idiot the man he’s dating is. Who the hell thinks of some stupid cities in the United States when the city of Rome is mentioned?

Lovino picks his head up and scowls at the picture of a mediocre plate of spaghetti on the menu. Who else but the goddamn personification of those states? He sets his chin down in his palm and stares Alfred down across the table. He keeps eye contact when he picks up his glass of wine and takes a drink, and he keeps eye contact when he sets it down and picks up his menu. He closes it, incredibly calm, and reaches forward with it.

_ Thwack! _

“Ow!” Alfred sets a hand on top of his head and pouts at Lovino. His glasses sit askew on the bridge of his nose, and if he were less annoyed Lovino would call him cute. But as fate has it, he’s annoyed so he does not think Alfred’s tilted glasses and pouty lips are cute. There’s no way he’d find anything about how Alfred’s cheeks puff out, how his brow twitches slightly, how his head tilts a few degrees to the right, how anything about a pouty I-Know-I-Messed-Up Alfred is cute. Nope. No way. Never.

Alfred grins suddenly, and Lovino’s gut sinks.

“You think I’m cute.”

“Shut up!”

Lovino is saved from Alfred torment when their waitress stops by and asks for their dinner orders. As abhorrent as it looked in the photo, Lovino asks for their best plate of spaghetti while Alfred, predictably, asks for their best burger. Once their waitress leaves with their orders plus a refill for Lovino’s wine, he snaps, “Couldn’t you be less predictable and get something better than that?”

Alfred snorts, and Lovino curses at him mentally. “Like you ordering pasta isn’t predictable!”

Raising a finger almost threateningly, Lovino whispers, “Do not insult the greatest dish known to man or I will leave you here with the bill and surrender my dignity and go to that Olive Garden down the street.” He lowers his finger and lets it flop uselessly to the table. “We wouldn’t even be dealing with such a stupid place if you used your,” he lowers his voice, “shitty-ass brain for once and actually booked a trip to, gee I don’t know… the actual city of Rome. I’m South Italy, remember? When I say Rome, I mean goddamn Rome. Not your backwoods cities, Alfred!”

“... you are im-pasta-ble to please.”

When the waitress delivers two plates of food to a lone Alfred, he doesn’t say anything and instead takes Lovino’s plate and sets it down alongside his burger.


	9. 9. Sunburn + SeyIce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god dammit I like heterosexuals.

She wants so badly to laugh. The corners of her mouth twitch behind her hand, and even through the cloud of discomfort in his eyes, Emil can easily recognize her shoulders shaking and nose flaring. She thinks it’s funny. She  _ always _ thinks it’s funny. It’s not.

“Michelle,” he weakly warns. He wants to say more but when cooling lotion his his bare back he hisses and stiffens up. She snorts on the inhale and he sighs. “Why is my pain so funny to you?”

The hand not covered in lotion gently takes his chin between her fingers and tilts it up so that their eyes meet. Somewhere in the fogged discomfort, she moved from his side to in front of him and knelt down. She always has been too fast to keep up with. It’s endearing, really, for somebody to extravagantly outgoing and excited to want to be around a reclusive introvert such as himself. Then again, he did get raised by somebody along the same personality line, so it makes sense his girlfriend follows the pattern. Stick to what makes you comfortable, as goes his life motto.

“It’s not funny,” she says finally, but she giggles after she says it so he doesn’t buy it for one second. “Honest to God! I just-” more giggling, “- well… you look like a lobster. Emi-lobster!” She is all too delighted with her joke and she falls on her butt from how hard she laughs. He groans loudly, burying his face in his hands. She  _ always _ does this!

“This is why I don’t go to the beach with you anymore, Michelle. I get burnt too easily because I usually don’t get this much direct sun. I get burnt and you laugh and- forget it!” Childishly, he kicks out of her and gently taps her forehead with his toes. She leans back on her hands to laugh more, the hand previously covered in lotion now getting dust and sand trapped in the mix. “Hey, pick your hand up! I don’t want a bunch of gunk in my aloe vera.”

For a split second she does stop laughing and she gives him a pitiful look. “I know, I know. This probably does hurt your pale little complexion. It’s just that the noises you make when I try to help you soothe the burn are so funny. Like- like,” she makes a high-pitched whining noise that does not sound anything like a noise he makes.

“I don’t make that sound! You make me sound like a baby!” His whole life has been coddling like he’s a child, especially from his brother, so he does not care to hear her reduce him to such as well.

Suddenly she stops, as if a grand idea has just hit her. Her eyes meet his and immediately after Michelle’s lips pull up in a grin. Before he can tell her to can whatever smart remark just crossed her mind, she snickers, “Should I get some butter for my Emi-lobster?”


	10. 10. College + DenAme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had something else planned, but then I remembered all those DenNor college AUs where Denmark is more on the shy side and a nerd and my heart skipped too much so I had to bring that over for this DenAme thing.

Mathias is super fun to hang out with in a small group. He makes everybody laugh, accepts silly dares while creating stupid dares (there  _ is _ a difference), and he can drink everybody under the table. Logic would dictate that he would be an amazing party guest, no?

No. The answer is absolutely, one hundred percent no.

Alfred sets the empty shot glass that used to house a jelly shot down on some random table next to two people making out (wait, doesn’t she hate that guy? When she bites his lip hard and he pulls back bleeding, he re-confirms his suspicions), and he twists his way in between the tipsy dancing crowd until he finds the loser corner. There is no set name for this group of people, but they’re basically party downers; the ones that don’t drink, don’t dance, don’t talk to anybody, the ones that likely got dragged there by pushy friends that couldn’t take no for an answer.

In the back of his mind, Alfred realizes he is the pushy friend when he sees Mathias sitting on the arm of the couch next to some platinum blonde teenager that is absolutely way too young to attend an alcoholic college party. Then again, Alfred himself is only nineteen so he has no room to snip at the teen to get lost. Instead of focusing on him, he looks at Mathias. “Dude, where have you been?”

Mathias looks up over the rim of his phone and smiles sheepishly. After he puts it away securely in his pocket lest a drunk partygoer steals it, he replies, “Here, the whole time.”

“Why?”

He looks away, cheeks coloring from what Alfred can only assume is shyness. This is unusual for Mathias. “Well, I don’t know. Never been to a college party.”

“You’re a senior!” Alfred bawks openly, and Mathias covers his mouth to laugh. He probably does make a funny sight, half-drunk and shocked. Even the too-young teen next to Mathias snickers at his face before looking back to his own phone. “You ain’t never had a party before?”

“I’ve had parties,” says Mathias quickly, defensively. He shrinks back into the couch and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Just, uh…”

“He’s never had a party with anybody except us four,” interrupts the teenager. Mathias whines his name, Emil, and tells him to shut it. “Why should I?” Emil sits up straight and gives him an incredulous look. “It’s true. You’ve only had parties with me, my brother, Tino and Berwald.”

The names ring a bell in the back of Alfred’s head. He and Berwald have a class together, and he and Tino are both of the college’s rifle team. Tino actually introduced him and Mathias. He’s never spoken much to Berwald though, and as for Emil and whoever his brother is he has no idea. The only thing he’s sure of is, based on Mathias hiding in the loser corner with the dragged-here people and the underage teen, this guy is not interested in the party. Maybe he misjudged him? Maybe Mathias is a lot shyer than meets the eye?

Courtesy is not something Alfred has in surplus let alone even in stock when halfway to drunk, but he manages to dig some up when he leans closer to Mathias’ ear and asks, “Do you wanna go home?” Mathias glances at Emil and then at a third party in the loser corner. The third party doesn’t even look up from his phone and he waves a hand, the flashing lights reflecting off his hair clip and making his eyes glow an unsettling color.

Satisfied with the wave, Mathias says something to Emil, who scoffs and inches away from the third party, and he stands up. He gestures for Alfred to lead them out, but before moving Alfred interlaces their fingers. Pulling Mathias forward, he waits until they’re outside before looking at him.

Mathias, flushed an even darker shade than before, gestures to their hands. Alfred, grinning, just says, “Didn’t wanna lose my best dude. Now c’mon, let’s go home and have our own party!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll let you decide who the I-thought-she-hated-him making out couple is. Personally I had Romania/Hungary in mind.


	11. 11. Taxi + NedMano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Untagged warnings:  
> \- implied / referenced NSFW (what you'd expect from the morning after)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly not sure why I picked this ship to write. I don't feel like I write Netherlands good at all, and this ship isn't something I'm deep in for. Then again, giving ships I never considered a chance is exactly how I fell so hard for EstMano.

As slowly as he can, without disturbing the mattress, Lovino stands up and grabs his jeans from the bedside table where they were tossed in a rush. On the way to the bathroom, he also grabs his shirt, belt, underwear, and shoes. He almost shuts the door and locks it before remembering his socks, but he grabs them off the floor quickly and slips inside the bathroom.

This is not a situation he ever expected to find himself in. Not the idea of one night stands; no, Lovino has had and knows in the future he will have a few more of those. What he means is he never expected to fall asleep in a stranger’s bed and stay until morning.

He woke up to an empty bed. The other side was still warm when he laid his hand on it, so clearly his partner had just left minutes before him.  _ God _ , he remembers thinking as he splashes his face with room temperature sink water,  _ did I actually stay overnight _ ? He examines his bare torso in the mirror, flushing at the sight of lovebites across his collarbone. His fingers trace them, and it’s so embarrassing to look at he shuts his eyes. His whole body is no better, and today every mark emits a dull ache that he almost wishes away. Almost.

In the middle of pulling his shirt back over his head, a heavy hand knocks at the bathroom door. He screams like a little girl and jumps away from the door, nearly missing a rough, “Hey, calm down. It’s just me.”

Wait. That voice. That sounds like one of Antonio’s friends, the big guy that smokes. As soon as the realization hits him, Lovino notices the scent of cigarettes and it causes his gut to drop to the floor like a bowling ball. Did- did he just sleep with-?

“Lovino,” continues the voice, interrupting his thoughts, “you gonna come down and eat? I made your favorite coffee.”

“No!” he shouts before he can think. “Just- I’ll call myself a taxi and we can forget this stupid thing ever happened! Just-” He bites his tongue, and his silence is only answered with more silence.

There’s a heavy thud outside the bathroom door, then the silence continues. He probably just dropped something and left. Lovino chews on his lip as he turns back to the mirror to readjust his hair. A one night stand isn’t any reason to not look good. As soon as he’s satisfied with his makeshift morning routine (he can brush his teeth and shower at home), he unlocks the door and opens it. Again, he screams like a little girl.

Sitting down in the hallway across from the bathroom door, Abel glances up at him over the edge of the newspaper. Sitting next to him is a mug of coffee that smells awfully similar to a cappuccino, its smell overpowering the faint scent of smoke floating off the end of the cigarette between his lips. His brows raises, and Lovino swallows dry. “Mornin’. And before you say anything, don’t talk about taking a taxi. I can drive you home if that’s what you want.”

“But- hey, wait a damn second.” Abel meets his eye, but Lovino looks away. This is way too embarrassing. “Won’t- hell, I like you a lot more than Antonio-”

“Same here.”

“-... so I don’t want to inconvenience you by making you take me home.”

“Lovino, if you were an inconvenience, I would’ve kicked you out of my bed last night and called you a taxi then.” Pushing himself to his feet, Abel puts the mug of coffee in Lovino’s hands before wandering down the hallway to the kitchen. “Now c’mon. I made my sister’s waffles. I know you like those.”


	12. 12. Emergency + NorKraine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hetalia onedraw hashtag on Twitter (run by @hetaknb) had NorKraine as a prompt a few days ago and I haven't stopped thinking about them since.  
> Also you will pry agender, they/them Norway from my cold dead hands.

The last thing Lukas expects out of their shift is a phone call from a frantic woman claiming she needs immediate assistance in her hotel room.

Today their shift is during the evening on a Saturday, a popular time for fancy guests only staying a night for some fancy party at a fancy establishment with fancy foods and fancy wines. As an unfancy person themselves, Lukas doesn’t care for the crowd they end up dealing with each night. They don’t even enjoy working weekend shifts, but of course amicable, easygoing Tino had a family emergency and called Lukas to cover his shift. Jerk.

Not a second after they hand a room key to a dirty blonde man and his date, a shorter brunette woman does the phone ring. They glance at the device and then at their coworker for the evening. Antonio is too busy checking in a woman to get the phone, so in annoyance Lukas grabs it and puts it to their ear.

“Front desk,” their voice is flatter than anybody’s in the customer service industry should be, but they can’t bring themselves to care. They’ve already dealt with running a lost suitcase up to the top floor to the rudest man they’ve ever served. Nobody can make them cheery his evening.

In tears, a feminine voice whimpers, “I need some help. It’s- it’s very important, I can’t do it alone and without help I’m going to be late. I’m in room 617” Her voice is accented, something Eastern European. Probably Russian.

Lukas runs a hand through their hair and holds back a groan. “Alright ma’am, what is it you need assistance with this evening?”

“I can’t say! It’s- I’m ashamed.”

Well that’s just goddamn lovely. A problem with a woman and she won’t even tell them what it is, and she expects them to help. Lukas bites a snippy remark about not being able to help without foreknowledge back, and instead says, “I’ll be right up ma’am.” He hangs up the phone and glances at Antonio, who is still checking in the woman. Their brow raises and they lean in until they’re close enough to blow air in his ear. He nearly jumps over the counter and gives them a weak look. “Stop fraternizing with our guest and watch the desk. Got a crier in 617.”

Antonio inhales through his teeth and smiles pitifully at them. “Good luck, friend.” He immediately turns back to the woman, the pity changing to flirty and Lukas can’t help but roll their eyes when they step out from behind the desk and to the elevator.

The ride is short compared to the one they took to the top floor earlier. They slowly trot down the hallway, counting the room numbers to themselves under their breath until 617 comes into sight. They square their shoulders and knock three times. “I’m from the front desk, ma’am. Please open the door so that I can assist you.”

A few seconds pass and they’re about to knock again when the sound of a latch being undone and the door knob twisting freezes their hand in mid-air. The door opens a hesitant crack and Lukas catches a nervous, puffy blue eye staring back at them. They put on their best customer service smile to calm her down, and soon she opens the door all the way. Her arm is pressed tight against her chest, the only thing holding her dress to her upper body. If they were more obscene, they would have leered.

“U-um,” she stutters, face flushing even darker, “well… I can’t reach my zipper. I need help, uh… gosh, I’m so sorry for being so annoying.”

_ You are annoying for this request _ , they think, but as soon as they think it a bad taste settles on their tongue. She seems harmless enough, and genuinely sad about needing help. She isn’t doing this just because she can, she likely needs this help or all would be lost.

They motion for her to turn around and she does. The expanse of her back is perfectly clear, her shoulder blade protruding out sharply from beneath her skin. The zipper stops just above her rear, but they ignore it as best they can and grab it, zipping it up to the top, just at the top of her shoulder blades. “There you are, ma’am.”

She turns around with such a bright, grateful smile that Lukas feels a flutter in their stomach. “Oh, thank you so much, ah…?”

“Lukas, ma’am.”

She giggles a little. “Lukas… thank you so much, Lukas. I’m Katya.”

They dip their head politely, though it’s more a move to hide the fluster on their face. This woman is… a little too cute. “Well, Miss Katya, if you should need any further assistance this evening do not hesitate to call the front desk. Just ask for me and I will return.” They step back into the hallway and glance over their shoulder. A small smile even graces their lips. “Goodnight Miss Katya.”


	13. 13. Twisted + NedEst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of things to say about this ship and the most prominent is this: *Estonia voice* Stupid Sexy Netherlands

Whenever he can’t find Abel, his first guess is to scan the expansive garden in his backyard. Nine times out of ten, he’ll be there watering flowers, harvesting in-season vegetables and fruits, or just staring at the sky. The garden is a sanctuary of his, a safe space to unwind and take a long drag, forgetting the day’s issues.

When he rounds the house and lets himself in through the gate, Eduard realizes that today is a one out of ten day. The house is completely empty save for Funske the rabbit, who hardly moves when he scratches behind its ears. “Interrupting your nap, I see,” he comments before leaving the house and making his way to where he is now. The garden is completely empty save for a few birds and butterflies, and there’s no scent of smoke. Perhaps Abel just isn’t home?

Eduard cups his hands around his mouth and calls his name, but there’s no reply. The wind ruffles his hair and the leaves of the lone tree rustle, a few falling from their branches. As a last resort, given he’s not in the house nor in the garden, Eduard treks his way across the carefully kept pathways of the garden until he’s shielded by the shade. He uses one hand as a visor to look up, and a smile twitches its way onto his lips.

Asleep several branches up, cigarette still alight and barely between his lips, Abel rests against the trunk. One leg dangles off the side of the branch, the other pulled up against his chest. His hands rest in his lap and from this angle, Eduard barely notices that his scarf sits folded under them.

With a snicker he mumbles, “Didn’t know you were that much of a treehugger, Abel,” before he grabs the bark with his own hands and hoists himself up. He’s careful to stay as quiet as he can, but when he puts too much weight on an unstable branch, it cracks and he yelps, hands fumbling to grasp a thicker, sturdier branch to prevent falling several feet onto his ass. As soon as he regains his footing, he glances up and is greeted with a lazy eyebrow raise.

“Exploring the sights?” asks Abel. His tone is leisurely, the leg pulled to his chest falling to dangle beside the other. Eduard offers a sheepish smile and pulls himself up. He sits himself on the sturdy branch he previously clung to for dear life, pushing his left shoulder flush against the bark. He doesn’t care to look like a fool again.

“I couldn’t find you.” Abel hums and removes the cigarette from between his lips. He reaches up and grabs an ashtray from an alcove in the tree. Eduard shoots him an incredulous look, but Abel merely puts it out and sets the ashtray back in its hole.

“What?”

“You… why do you keep an ashtray up here?”

“I like to enjoy the sights. I like my vice.” He half-shrugs. “I like enjoying the sights with my vice. Is this really a bigger shock than my garden, or Funske?”

Eduard huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “No, I’d say a big scary man that looks like he sells to the teenagers on the street corner while simultaneously being the kingpin of an underground drug trafficking ring owning a little bunny rabbit is a lot more surprising than a big ol’ softie enjoying a cigarette in a tree.”

“Drug kingpin?” Abel snorts and gestures vaguely to his face. “Do I really look like that?”

“It’s the scar,” admits Eduard.

“Figures.” They’re silent for a few seconds. “... man, you had a twisted view of who I am, didn’t you?”

“I was afraid you’d rip my head off. You’re about the same height as Tino’s boyfriend and you have the same hair color, and he looked like he wanted to rip my head off. Twisted view by association.”

Abel rolls his eyes and rests his head against the bark. “And now?”

“Now?” Eduard grins to himself. “Now I just see a giant mush monster that couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You ain’t a fly so that comment doesn’t exempt you from getting my boot to your face.”

“Fair enough.”


	14. 14. Parade + AmeChu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stared at Yao's Hetawiki page for longer than I care to admit trying to figure out how to characterize him. I think I failed.

Alfred did not imagine that his day would start with a loud, annoying banging at his front door. He did not imagine said banging would belong to Yao. He did not imagine that Yao is banging on his door to bother him about Chinese New Year of all the unholy things to bother somebody with before eight in the morning.

“You wanna what?” Alfred breaks out in a yawn at the end of his sentence, dragging the ‘what’ on for several seconds. Yao waits patiently on his doorstep, or at least he appears patient. After years of knowing and doing business with him, it becomes apparent that patience is not a valued virtue of Chinese households. At least, not a valued virtue in the household of the human personification of China. Funny how Yao grills all the other Asian nations about politeness, and respect, and righteous living, and he can’t even follow his own advice about respecting people’s routines.

_ Respect my goddamn routine of not being awake before ten, Yao _ .

He nimbly slips under Alfred’s arm and makes himself at home, taking a seat on the couch. His legs cross at the ankle and his hands sit in his lap, the picture of diplomacy. Alfred can’t help but snort at that comparison. Yao is the least diplomatic of all the former Allies, except for maybe Ivan but thinking about Ivan makes his brain hurt so he refuses to think about Ivan. His refusal to think about him makes him more prominent a thought, and it only strikes him that he looks quite the fool running his hands through his hair when Yao squints at him and scoffs.

After Alfred retrieves his morning coffee, he sits down opposite of Yao. “My New Year celebration? You’re a little late for that.”

“Not your New Year, mine.” Yao gestures towards the calendar hanging on the wall. From this distance and without his glasses (that banging was too annoying to stop and put them on before getting up), Alfred can’t read what tiny text is printed on today’s date. “Plenty of places in your home have small Chinatowns courtesy of myself,” he looks smug, and Alfred wants to toss his coffee at him, “and your home houses many of my citizens’ descendents. I want to see how they celebrate Chinese New Year.”

Alfred scratches behind his ear and thinks for a hard minute. The dull buzzing of the ventilation system starts up, the only noise in the apartment. “Well,” he starts, “there’s always parades and good food. Y’all know how to make good food.” It’s basic flattery, but it makes Yao preen and run his fingers through his ponytail. Alfred’s eyes follow them until they fall back in his lap. “Which celebration do you wanna see first? We’re in NYC right now, and this Chinatown is one of the biggest so the celebrations are larger. Or, you can go to LA’s Chinatown. Chicago has a decent one too.”

Abruptly Yao stands, and Alfred stands with him. “All of them,” he says with a grin. “Show me all of your home’s celebrations.” He strides quickly for the door, calling, “Get dressed quickly! I wish to go as soon as possible!”

If it had been anybody else banging on his door before eight in the morning, demanding to see specific parts of his home’s celebrations for a holiday that isn’t even a national one as far as he’s officially concerned, Alfred would have shut the door and went back to sleep. Now, enjoying a bowl of noodles and watching several people march down Chinatown’s street in a dragon costume, Yao grinning beside him, Alfred doesn’t mind the rude awakening.


	15. 15. Blush + RomaBel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Look I don't like heterosexuals-  
> RomaBel:  
> Me:  
> Me: Okay I like two heterosexuals...

Belgium has a mysterious power, and to young little Romano, she’s magic. He could be laying in a cot, hugging the handle of a broom to his chest when he hears her laughter echoing Spain’s. His eyes would shoot open, the broom falling away from him as he throws himself to his feet. The door unlatches and standing in the opening would be Belgium, glancing behind her to thank Spain for holding the door open. By the time both of them are inside the room, Romano would be in the next, holding his chest and breathing hard.

This woman had a horribly wonderful power when he was young. These days, she still has it.

Lately it doesn’t affect him as much as it used to. He can be in the same room as her and not feel it. He could even speak to her normally, flirt even, and not feel it. She could laugh, smile, get so caught up in retying her ribbon, fingers moving swiftly through her hair, and he wouldn’t feel it. There is but one situation in which her mysterious power rises and it affects him now just as much as it did when he was a toddler under Spain’s house.

“Romano?”

“Yeah, Belgium?”

“How do you say ‘kiss me’ in Spanish?”

The papers he would be holding in his hands drop, and when he looks at her she has such a cat-like grin on her face. She would know exactly what she’s doing when she asks, that much is evident. She would know exactly why his shoulders stiffen, his eyes widen, and why that cursed power of hers comes back in full force.

“W-what would you ask me for, cursed woman!” He would snap each time, turning his back to her and squeezing his eyes shut. She would begin to speak again, but immediately he would cut her off and cry, “Ask Spain! Stop asking me!”

Before he could leave, her hand would lay on his shoulder and her face would be there in the corner of his eye whenever he opens them. With a helpless look he would silently beg her to keep quietly, but she clearly can’t pick up on the signals because she would say, “You always kept saying it to me when you were little. I miss hearing it.”

When Romano finally turns and looks her in the eye, he would feel it. His hands would shake by his sides and his brows would become lax, all his anger and surprise melting away. Looking at her never bothers him until she pulls out that wretched power of hers to make him like this, and he can’t do anything but fall victim to it again.

Below a whisper, with his cheeks glowing bright red and heart skipping all over again like he was still young, he would whisper, “Bésame.” As soon as the words would leave his lips, he finds them warmed by hers and she leans in and pecks him. In an instant she would pull away and go back to whatever she would have been doing, leaving Romano a embarrassed, flustered, blushing mess.

_ God, please damn whatever mysterious power Belgium has. I can’t handle it _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had around nine years of Spanish so I did not just Google the translation (okay I did but only because I needed the accent above the E. Point still stands I knew the translation).


	16. 16. Railroad + EstFin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter somewhat alludes to a horrible modern historical event but I decided not to go into detail about it, just vaguely imply it. If you know much Estonian history, you'll know what it is.
> 
> Also, nothing to do with my writing but I am in a very bad home situation at the moment so this might be on temporary hiatus soon. I'll let you know if it is.

“I’m sorry Mister Finland,” says the secretary behind the desk, “but Mister Estonia hasn’t been in today.” Her lips are drawn thin in a line, possibly from worry, but Finland turns his into a smile to lighten the atmosphere. She returns it hesitantly with her own smile. “I can try calling him if you’d like, though he hasn’t picked up the phone either. In fact, it went straight to voicemail.”

“Voicemail?’ Finland tilts his head, surprise settling on his own face. Estonia never turns his phone off and he never lets its battery die, so for it to go straight to voicemail means one of those two things happened. He doesn’t do this. “Are you sure?”

The secretary nods. “Yes, Mister Finland. I left him two messages, one because he’s late and two because Mister Lithuania was looking for him as well. Shall I leave a third to let him know you want to see him as well?”

Finland raises a hand and shakes his head. A smaller smile returns to his face, more out of politeness than happiness. “No, that’s alright. I’m going to see if I can find him myself.”

“If you do happen to find him, please let him know he’s needed.” He nods and gives her a small wave as he turns around to exits the office building.

So, Estonia hasn’t told anybody where he is? And he’s skipping work? Most of all, he isn’t answering his phone? Finland stares at the cracked cobblestone street as a few bikers and tourists pass by excitedly, chattering about visiting the Old Town and stopping for lunch. He lets his eyes follow them for a few seconds before he looks away. Estonia isn’t the type of country to leave his people without a word. Maybe without a vocal word, but at least a notice on his blog that he’d be MIA for whatever period of time.

There is no war. There is no threat of war, at least immediately concerning the Baltic countries. Russia and America are having their own pissing contests, but their conflict does not immediately fall back on Estonia so there’s no reason for him to disappear because of those two. Finland’s eyes squeeze shut so tightly it hurts, but he does not open them until his mind comes across a potential location. He takes the last few steps of the building two at a time and nearly sprints his way through the Old Town.

Finland is no stranger to the wilderness, so the run through thick forest and snow-dusted ground doesn’t bother him. He even vaults over a downed log just to test his reflexes, and there’s a prideful skip in his step when he successfully lands the vault. The pride wanes as he gets closer to his destination. When he spots abandoned train tracks, he pats himself on the back for knowing the way.

He skids to a stop, kicking up dirt and snow. In the middle of the abandoned tracks, Estonia stands and stares into the distance. His back is to Finland, and for a second it looks as if he hasn’t noticed him. He opens his mouth to call out, but Estonia interrupts him.

“Need more alcohol, Tino?”

Finland’s smile warms him so much that the title falls away from him and when he steps forward to stand beside Estonia, he says, “I was looking for you,” not as his country but as Tino.

Warmed by his warmth, Eduard keeps his eyes locked on the abandoned railroad leading to Russia and says, “You found me.” When he smiles it’s bitter, and when he turns his back to harsh memories his steps take on an air of confidence that makes Tino want to pull him to his chest and keep him there, but he cannot. Because Eduard is not Eduard. He is Estonia, and Tino is Finland, and they cannot have that.

Instead of hugging him, Finland walks beside Estonia and hopes his confident strides match his.


	17. 17. Westbound + DenSu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell if I know how to write DenSu. Also hell if I know how to be historically accurate when it comes to the viking ages. Take this vague around-the-time-Norway-discovered-Iceland thing. This isn't even that shippy but again I reiterate the first sentence of this note.

“Goin’ out again?”

Setting the end of his axe on the ground, Denmark glances over his shoulder. From the doorway, still clad in his nightwear, Sweden stares at him. The silence between them is almost as frosty as the air, but Denmark diffuses it with a grin and half-shrug. The fight last night shouldn’t matter given their lifespans. Sweden can get over it, just like Denmark got over it. Easier than holding onto a grudge, he’s learned.

“Yep,” he says, turning himself to fully face Sweden. Half-aware of himself, he puffs his chest out. He has to assert himself. He is the leader, after all. “Nor wanted t’go visit that new little guy on the island out west. Said somethin’ about taking the kid in as a brother.” He laughs, the skin beside his eyes crinkling. Eyes closed, he doesn’t notice how Sweden’s stare at them. When he reopens his eyes, Sweden is back to staring at a place just over his head. “Can ya even imagine it? Nor, a brother?”

Sweden hums noncommittally. Typical from him. Denmark shrugs it off.

“You wanna go too, Sve?”

This time, Sweden shakes his head and stands up straight. The doorway creaks when his shoulder lifts off it, a groan of relief from the pressure. Denmark’s lips twist as he looks at the house overall. It needs some fixing up. The wood is rotting, and when he and Sweden stay here, they feel cool breezes slip through the cracks. Guilt bites at the back of his mind; he needs to help Norway rebuild this house up soon, or have Sweden do it. The idea of Sweden doing something he’s easily capable of stings Denmark’s pride, so he discards it. If he can’t fix Norway’s house and he has to pass it off to somebody else, what kind of leader is he? Not a very good one.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Denmark blinks. “Ah, I spaced out thinkin’ ‘bout Nor’s house here. Should get it fixed up soon, hm? You all but had’ta cuddle me last night ‘cause it was so cold! Hah!” He laughs, and Sweden grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Shut up.” From the cold or otherwise, his cheeks are tinted pink and Denmark delights even more in it. You’d catch him dead before he admits it, but Sweden looks pretty sweet when flushed.

Instead of leaving off on his hush, Sweden continues. “Didn’t cuddle ya. There’s hardly ‘ny room in that bed’a Nor’s. Didn’t have anywhere else’ta lay. ‘sides, you take up too much’a the bed.”

“So I’ll build Nor a brand new bed! Problem solved!”

Loudly, Sweden snorts and shakes his head. “Y’couldn’t build a box even with instructions. If Nor wants a new bed I’ll make it.”

Waving a head dismissively, Denmark raises his axe again and slings it across the top of his shoulders. With a lopsided grin, he says, “What, you gonna build us all stuff now? Can I call ya the furniture store?”

“Call me anythin’ but my name an’ you’ll eat m’sword, Denmark.”

“Okay, Furniture Store! I’ll be back in a week or so with Nor an’ the new kid!”


	18. 18. Dominant + RomaCan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed how both Romano and Canada have much more noticeable / popular brothers. So I went there. Admittedly my first thought was NSFW but I am trying to stay classy. (Says the person with more unfinished PWP than actual fics on their Google Docs...)

Objectively speaking, Romano would call his personality aggressive yet malleable. Sure, he hates being told what to do and he  _ especially _ hates when Veneziano tells him what to do, or he dictates the business of their country without consulting him, but he’s open to disagreement and compromise. Sure, he and Veneziano and Seborga all saw the beautiful woman on the corner, but Seborga saw her first and notified his brothers to her presence, so after some disagreement and compromise, they concluded that Seborga had the right of way to approach her and tell her how gorgeous her eyes are. He can adapt to change no matter how much he dislikes it.

Not just with women, not just with politics, with everything in his life. He can compromise after some heated disagreement. How else could he have ever accepted that ugly sack of potatoes as Veneziano’s friend? He didn’t like it, he made it known he didn’t like it, but he compromised. He let Veneziano decide what’s best for himself. If he’s learned anything, it’s that he can’t control anybody let alone his own brother. He hated being controlled and having his business dictated by Spain, although on the afterthought it did allow him much more time to take siestas…

Today’s meeting is no different. Veneziano only brought him as a consultant and as a courtesy to him. There’s no real reason for Romano to be here. He isn’t considered the legitimate Italy, but despite this Veneziano brought him to a meeting. However today, Romano finds himself beside somebody with a similar case.

“America? Wait for me!”

At first he thinks the room is haunted. The voice is quiet despite its urgency, and when he spins on his heels he can’t spot its owner right away. Not until after somebody shoulder-checks him and makes the both of them lose their balance. Now on the ground, Romano no longer believe it’s a ghost that spoke, but instead the other man on the floor beside him.

He looks strikingly similar to the man he was calling for. A similar shade of blonde hair accented by a stray curl (Romano almost touches his own when he sees it, but he resists), helplessly annoyed eyes sat behind silver-rimmed glasses, and a pale hand lifted in exasperation towards the elevators. In the distance, he swears he can hear a familiar loud voice greeting Japan.

“Canada?”

This time, Canada looks as if he just got frightened by a ghost. He looks to Romano with a semi-slack jaw, eyes widened in surprise and the lifted hand falling down to the floor. They stare at each other for several seconds until barely above a whisper, Canada asks, “Romano? I- I didn’t expect you to see me.”

“I didn’t expect t’see  _ you _ here,” admits Romano. He pushes himself to his feet and offers Canada a hand to help him do the same. Once they’re both on their feet, he continues. “I didn’t even expect to  _ come _ . Damn Veneziano always handles the business so I don’t have anything to do, and he rarely bothers to ask if I wanna tag along to this shitfest you guys call a World Meeting.”

Canada gives him a half-smile and nods in what he can assume is solidarity. “I know the feeling. I’m part of this alliance, and yet America always goes off without me. He always forgets to make sure I’m with him when we come to Europe, so I end up coming by myself. Then even when I am here and he does remember to take me with him, nobody at the meeting ever notices me.”

Romano nods eagerly. “Yeah! They always listen ta Veneziano but they never ask me for my opinion. What am I, stupid?”

As he and Canada rant back and forth about their brothers’ dominating presences, his arms waving to emphasize his point while Canada pets his bear, they don’t notice when the clock signals the meeting’s start. Even if they did notice, Romano knows he would have much rather stuck to conversing with Canada. Screw the meeting and all those dominant assholes. He’s got much more important business to take care of.


	19. 19. Liar + BelaMona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Untagged warnings:  
> \- Mild existentialism (?) / discussion of the fruitlessness that is human life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams hands on the desk so loudly and aggressively I startle you* Give me more F/F ships.

“Life is pointless. You run around with shit for brains and then you die. It’s a pathetic existence.”

Monaco is so used to hearing such things now that she merely hums acknowledgement as she cuts the deck and passes out hands to her gathered guests. Still banned from her own casinos, she’s taken up a work around for her gambling habit, and recently every month she brings together a few friends to play. This event, of course, is not complete without her girlfriend and even if Belarus is an intimidating presence for her guests, she’d much rather they leave than her.

Laying on the couch a feet away, Belarus stares at the ceiling, her legs dangling off the end and her forearm lying across her forehead. Her shoes bare cling to her feet and even from this distance the vague expression on her face is clear. Monaco glances at the blackjack table. Ever so easygoing and accepting, Macau stands from his seat and rounds the table to take her place. He smiles softly at her and gestures towards Belarus.

“I believe she wants your comfort, Monaco.”

She shrugs. “I never know what exactly she wants, but that’s kind of the fun part.” After making sure Macau has a handle on dealing with the game, she leaves the table and steps towards the couch. She plants her palms flat on the arm of the couch on either side of Belarus’ head and leans over her until she takes up her field of vision. Belarus doesn’t seem to acknowledge her, eyes distantly focused on something Monaco cannot see.

She’s used to Belarus and her eccentricities by now. She’s used to how she stares at the wall for hours at a time, talks to ghosts nobody else can see, says mysterious things at specific times of the day, and most of all how fruitlessly she thinks of life, human life especially. Monaco doesn’t have much of an opinion on human life. They live way too long to consider the philosophy of humans and their lifespans, too long to ever consider getting close enough to them to understand. She saw Mister France get hurt long ago by his desire to understand, and she took it upon herself to never get into that position.

Belarus never had a moment like Mister France, but she holds the cynical view of a nation stung by love and loss of humans, a view suited to somebody like England or the older Italy. She has never known what pain sprouts from such an experience, and perhaps she just never allowed herself the chance at such a wonderfully stinging thing. Monaco never has, so perhaps she isn’t in any sort of position to judge Belarus.

“What are you doing there?”

Monaco blinks herself out of thought when Belarus speaks. Her tone is devoid of any emotion, but her eyes are refocused and stare directly into hers. Manco’s lips quirk up and she leans down a little further, the tip of her side braid brushing Belarus’ cheek. “You keep talking bad about life. I was wondering if you hate the idea of living.”

She’s silent for a few seconds, but she slowly nods. “Yeah. It sucks.”

Monaco leans down a little further. Now she can feel Belarus’ exhaled breaths on her face, the smell of mint flooding her nose. “What about life do you hate?”

“The futility of it.” The answer is almost instant. “You live, you die, and you’re shit out of luck if you expect to make an impression on the world with what time you have.”

“Can I propose something to you?”

“What?”

Monaco leans all the way down and kisses Belarus. It’s awkward from the upside-down position, but the flush in Belarus’ cheeks makes it worthwhile. She grins and says, “You live. You’ll die. You’ve got all the luck in the world because you’ve made an impression on my life.”

“... you’re a liar.”

Monaco pulls away and stands up straight. She stretches to pull the kinks out of her back. On her way back to the blackjack table, she calls, “The only lie I’ve ever told was that I didn’t think you were cute.”


	20. 20. Sailing + EngPort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went historical on this one. See end notes for a bit of explanation.
> 
> Seeing as at the time of this writing there is no canon gender for Brazil, I went with she/her because we need more APH ladies. Also, Portugal has no canon name so I picked one I like for him. Also also, I headcanon that Portugal and Spain are blood brothers so that's why Port refers to Spain as his brother.

As soon as John VI’s head disappears below deck, Portugal releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Still he stares at the hatch his royalty descended into, nerves under attack from the slightest of noises. Even the brush of wind through his hair makes goosebumps rise on his skin. It infuriates him how on edge he is. He isn’t the nervous one of the Iberian Peninsula, that’s Spain’s title. For as lax as his brother appears, Spain stresses more than him. He always has.

Thoughts of his brother make his already-frayed mood take on a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He supposes he should have expected Spain to side against England after the years of piracy, but never did he imagine Spain invading his home alongside France. He knew those two had been speaking privately, but he didn’t ever consider their talks to turn into an alliance against him of all nations. England, obviously, but not him.

_ Then again _ , he chastises himself mentally,  _ you are the one that agreed to an alliance with England. An ally of England is an enemy of France, and with Spain siding with France of course you would become an enemy. _

Portugal nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand rests on his shoulder. Immediately he goes to draw the knife from his belt, but England’s voice stops him. “Hey, hey! It’s me!” His shoulders relax as soon as he meets England’s eye, but tension still runs through his veins. The betrayal of his brother has made everything hard to take at face value.

“Sorry,” he apologises. He releases the handle of the knife and turns fully towards England. Attempting to diffuse his own worry, he says, “That Royal Navy uniform suits you well. If only my naval uniforms looked that good.”

England doesn’t reply, instead saying, “Your royal court is all aboard the ship. We’re ready to sail whenever you are.”

“I wonder if Brazil will be surprised at my arrival,” he muses. “I haven’t spoken with her in about half a century. Hopefully she doesn’t mind.”

“She will.” Portugal flinches at the confidence in England’s words. “No matter how nicely you treat a colony, they will not welcome you with open arms. She will not welcome you, but don’t let it deter you.” He glances away for a millisecond, and it’s not hard to guess where his mind wanders. Portugal is about to offer a word of support, but England continues. “She is still your colony. Make sure your royalty governs her and her people firmly lest she slips away from you.”

“Mister England. Mister Portugal.” Both of them turn their eyes to Moore, who bows deeply at the waist before speaking again. “The ships are ready to set sail to Brazil at your orders. As you’re already aware of,” he pulls up straight and meets Portugal’s eye, “Mister England will only be accompanying you halfway. When he, Sir Smith and Lord Strangford turn around and return to our country, I will continue with you through the last half of the journey.”

Portugal nods. “I understand. Please alert the crew to set sail in ten minutes.” He watches Moore speed walk down to the pier to speak to both Smith and Strangford. As soon as he’s but a dot on the dock, he looks back to England. “Am I not good enough company for you, Arthur?”

Despite the atmosphere, England half-smiles and shakes his head. “You are much more enjoyable company than the humans, or that God-awful frog and his nitwit leader Napoleon. Alas, I need to remain at my home in case the wars escalate. Still, a slight vacation out to sea with you wouldn’t be too bad, hm?”

“You sound a bit pirate-y there, friend.”

England snickers under his breath, his boots tapping on the deck as he makes his way towards the door John VI disappeared through. “You can never take the love of the sea away from me, João.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Peninsular War was a conflict that lasted between 1807 and 1814 for control of the Iberian Peninsula. The conflict involved France (led by Napoleon), Spain, England, and Portugal. Together, French and Spanish armies invaded Portugal and caused the royal court to flee to Brazil.  
> \- Portugal's royal court, headed by John VI, was escorted across the sea to Brazil by the British Royal Navy as per the alliance between the two countries.  
> \- Moore refers to Graham Moore, a career officer in the Royal Navy who escorted the Portuguese royal court all the way to Brazil.  
> \- Smith and Strangford refer to Sir Sidney Smith and Lord Strangford, two Royal Navy officers who escorted the Portuguese royal court halfway to Brazil before returning back to England.


	21. 21. Tomorrow + Nyo EstMano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the absolute best I could have brought forth for my girls but y'know. I scouted so much for Tsukasa Suou's birthday gacha in Enstars I have no energy to try.

Evelin doesn’t like waking up to a cold bed. She could drown in prose about the significance of her disliking it, but simplified she’d much rather say she likes to hold onto something when she sleeps, and a cold bed indicates her precious hold-onto thing has left.

When she reaches out to pull said thing closer, she feels cold sheets. Seeing as she’s not sleeping with the dogs at her shelter, this shouldn’t be a surprise. However, she distinctly remembers falling asleep with something warm and soft in her arms…

Opening her eyes, she’s greeted by a blurry tangle of sheets and barely muffled yelling. As much as she would love to go right back to sleep (it’s Sunday for fuck’s sake), if she leaves the familiar voice alone for too long, there will be a much bigger problem. Begrudgingly, she all but slides onto the floor as she kicks the sheets off and rolls to the edge.

As soon as she opens the bedroom door, she hears, “I got the right’a knock the teeth outta anybody’s mouth if they disturb my sleep! Besides, you coulda woke Eve up. It’s one thing to fuck with my sleep but you ain’t going to fuck with hers!”

A bit of warmth pools in her gut, but she pushes it down and focuses on what she set out to do. She pokes her head around the corner and raises a brow at Chiara, who sits at one of the kitchen tables seething into the phone. Evenlin gets a rush of pity for whoever she’s chewing out. When Chiara gets mad, she gets  _ mad _ .

Before her girlfriend can yell again, Evelin slides up behind her silently and takes the phone out of her hand. Chiara protests in shock and almost tips the chair over turning around to see whoever took the phone. With a grin, she hits the end call button and she can’t resist a giggle when Chiara nearly squawks at her. Before she can say anything, Evelin raises a finger.

“Not today.”

“But Carmen woke me up and I had’ta give her a piece’a-”

“Not today. Tomorrow.”

Chiara scowls. “Why?”

Evelin leans down and half-hugs her around her shoulders, settling her chin atop Chiara’s head. “Because I’m tired and I wanna spend today in bed with you.”

“We have work-”

“ _ Tomorrow _ we have work.”

“No, we literally have work-”

“Consider it cancelled until tomorrow.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

Evelin can’t hold it and she bursts into laughter. She buries her giggles into Chiara’s hair not without minor protest from her girlfriend, however most of her protesting seems to be, “Shut up,” repeated in different inflections. In between giggles, she manages, “You? Calling me stubborn?”

“I get it, I get it!” Chiara whines loudly, reaching up with one hand to swat Evelin on the side of her head, displacing her glasses. “If I go ahead and stay in bed with ya all day, will you  _ cut it out _ ?”

As soon as her laughter subsides, Evelin presses a quick kiss to Chiara’s temple and nods. “Mhm. Now c’mon.”


	22. 22. Snowfall + LietCan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this is a needless pile of fluff and I melted writing this. Me wanting to write LietCan brought to you by... fuck if I can find the fic again but the one AmeEst fake dating fic where LietCan was in the BG. If you can find it, I highly recommend it.

“Was it supposed to snow this evening?”

Matthew averts his eyes from the gorgeous window decorations of the knick-knack shop and meets Toris’ gaze. A cloudy puff escapes from between his lips as he hums thoughtfully. “Not that I can recall. It is kind of cool though.” To prove his point, he blows another breath and watches as it dissipates. Toris follows his example and blows his own breath. “What, don’t believe me?”

Toris smiles a bit sheepishly and shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s just I loved doing that since I was younger. It was fun to see my breath in the air since usually I can’t. Besides, if you think I’m childish for it, you should see Raivis. He can’t stop mouth-breathing when it gets cold enough.” He grins and covers his mouth to stifle a chuckle, and Matthew feels adoration bloom in his chest and warm his body. When Toris lowers his hand, he takes it in his own and laces their gloved fingers together. Even through the fabric he can feel the warmth of his palm, and it makes his cheeks warm in time with Toris’.

The sidewalk light changes to green and Matthew glances around the street before he pulls Toris along to the other side. They pass a few more shops decorated to the nines with holiday decor, Toris stopping in at one to get a present for his roommate. Matthew waits on the street, staring into the dark sky. He can’t see any stars, they’re too far into the city for that, but still the wide open reach of the night sky makes him feel at ease, a smile spreading on his lips. He shuts his eyes and leans back against the brick wall of the store, ignoring how cold it is through his coat.

When the shop door opens and Toris reappears, he’s surprised when something cold and wet hits his cheek. Opening his eyes, Matthew stares as snowflakes float down and brush his skin, landing in his hair. He turns to Toris, who also stares up as the snow begins. One of his hands sits outreached, collecting a handful of flakes. Soon he cranes his neck to Matthew and smiles.

“Looks like we remembered wrong.”

Matthew offers a half shrug and presses his shoulder against Toris’. The plastic bag crinkles between their legs. “How about this?” begins Matthew. “We drop the present off at home and go to the park to watch the snow. It is the first snowfall of December after all.”

Toris debates it over for a few seconds before nodding slightly. “Sounds nice. Let’s grab coffee from the corner shop before we go to the park though. Oh, can we sit in front of the lake? We can’t see any stars but I like the way the sky reflects off the surface.” There’s a light behind his eyes when he makes the request, and Matthew has to keep from giggling. Toris asked to sit by the lake for their first date, so of course he’d request to sit there for an impromptu date such as this.

Matthew grabs his hand again before saying, “Anything you want.”


	23. 23. Paranoia + RoIce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, googling how to differentiate Romania/Iceland's ship name and Romano/Iceland's ship name:

The bottom line he gives is that Norway cannot, under any circumstances, know. Romania doesn’t see a problem with this, and he doesn’t know why Iceland stresses out so much about it.

“You don’t get it,” Iceland says. “I like you, I honestly do, but you have a giant mouth! I’ve heard you talking about secrets when Norway has you and England over to study, I don’t know… raising demons to do your bidding, or whatever it is you three do. Regardless,” he shakes his head and grabs Romania’s arm, squeezing, “I need you to not do that with our secret!”

Romania half-turns on the couch to face Iceland and tilts his head. He isn’t dumb, far from it, so it isn’t hard for him to imagine why Iceland so desperately doesn’t want their relationship public knowledge to Norway. If the roles were reversed, and Moldova was trying so desperately to hide a boyfriend from him, Romania knows in his heart the second he finds out would mean endless teasing and protective older brothering. Given what he knows of Norway and his relationship with his brother, he’d do the same thing if this got out. Perhaps more teasing than protectiveness, but the same general principles would apply.

“Okay, I won’t tell him.” Iceland doesn’t stop staring hard at him, and it makes Romania a bit nervous. He hides it with a smile. “I promise! I only loosen my lips to England and Norway because they’re the type of people to keep secrets under wraps. Anybody that knows me knows I’ll keep very important things confidential. I only talk about silly things with them.”

“You discussed how ugly of a person Hungary is with them, and how the last time you and Bulgaria and Serbia got drunk, those two got-”

“Aah, well anyway!” Romania coughs to clear his throat. “Exactly. I talk about silly things only.”

Iceland groans and leans against the back of the couch, pulling his knees to his chest. “You aren’t taking this seriously, Romania!” As cute and amusing as Iceland is when he pouts, Romania keeps his laughter in check and half-smiles. He reaches out and brushes some hair out of Iceland’s eyes, smiles spreading wider when Iceland looks at him. “What?”

“I promise, Ice,” he says softly. Unconsciously or otherwise, Iceland presses against his hand as he moves to place his palm on his cheek. Romania has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too big at the affectionate gesture. “I won’t tell Norway. If he hears about it, it isn’t from me. I swear all of my magic on it.”

“Fine. If Norway starts getting on my ass about you though, I’m gonna die.”

“I’ll bring you back to life if you do die.”

“Not helping!”

A week later, Iceland pulls Romania out of the meeting room and into a side area, glaring and whining, “He found out!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know you didn’t. I thought it and he found out that way!”

Romania squints. “Pardon? How did he-?”

“Norway read my mind! Did you forget you taught him how to do that?”

“... whoops.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like SerBul so I sorta implied it. Kinda wish Serbia had canon facts and such so I could write them.


	24. 24. Strawberries + BulAme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ship started as "What America ships has my friend Juju seen and what ships has she not seen?" but now it is... a legit ship of mine. God help me.

_ 16:42       From: Vlad  
_ _ sorry about taking so long!!! arthur got a new book for us to look at. u can go home if u wanna, u don’t have to wait on me _

If only that were the case. Sliding down the cool tile wall, Georgi sighs through his nose and pulls his knees to his chest. A click echoes in the hallway to signal his phone is locked, but it fades just as soon as it rises. There are no other footsteps in the hall, just the dull buzzing of the air conditioning and muffled chatter from behind the club door to his right. One voice is familiar, Vlad’s, the other two recognizable but not by name or face. He’s never seen either Arthur or Lukas in person despite having waited outside this club room for three and a half years of his high school life. Vlad doesn’t know how to drive, and he hates the bus, so he hitches a ride with Georgi to and from school. He funds the gas money, so it’s no skin off Georgi’s nose. A tad annoying, sure, but not an inconvenience. They’ve been friends for long enough that he’s used to Vlad’s antics.

The only problem today is that their club meeting is taking much longer than usual. Georgi taps the home button on his phone and the screen lights up, flashing the time again. It’s been two minutes since he slid down the wall despite it feeling like two years since. With nobody around to hear him, he groans loudly and leans his head back until it thuds against the tile. He has a job interview at 17:15 and by the time Vlad comes out, he drives Vlad home, he goes home himself and changes, and gets to the place, he’ll be late. Sure, Vlad told him it’s fine to leave, but the last time he did the guy got lost on his way home and called him for help, thus resulting in Georgi having to come back up to wherever the fuck he wandered and get him.

Shoes squeak on the laminated flooring, making Georgi open his eyes and glance towards the noise. He’s got a bag of some sort of food which he stares intensely at, but based solely on the patriotic jacket and blonde hair there’s no mistaking who it is. The American transfer student, who isn’t really a transfer anymore given he’s been at this school for a year now but he still acts as if everyday is his first day so it’s easier to call him the transfer student. What’s his name again? It begins with an A, Georgi’s sure of it…

Whatever his name is, he stops outside the club room as well. After he zips the bag shut (this close, Georgi can now see it’s full of strawberries), he throws the door open and grins, calling, “Yo, bro! We gotta go home. You’ve been magic hoo-hahing so long that my club let out. Usually you’re dragging my ass out of club.” Without waiting for an answer, or to confirm if Arthur even heard him, he shuts the door. For the first time since entering the hallway, he takes notice of Georgi on the floor and he smiles down at him. “Hiya!”

Georgi nods slightly and averts his eyes. While his best friend is an extrovert, he most certainly is not. Even being in the presence of a stranger makes nerves jump in his gut, and this is no different. It’s name even worse by the fact that the transfer student won’t stop looking at him. He even squats until they’re eye level. Georgi assumes this guy won’t let it go, so he looks back and mutters a small hello before looking away again. It half-occurs to him to pull out his phone to silently indicate to this guy he’s not interested in talking, but he reconsiders looking too rude. He doesn’t like to be rude, except to Vuk. But Vuk deserves it! Fucking jerk, he is…

The bag of strawberries is extended in from of his face, and curiously he glances to the transfer student whose grin hasn’t faded in the slightest. “Wanna try? They’re delicious.”

Georgi doesn’t know what compels him to, but he takes one from the bag. The transfer student isn’t wrong, they  _ are _ delicious and not too sweet or juicy. Before he can think, he says, “These would go great with a bowl of frozen vanilla.”

“Ice cream?”

“Yogurt.” He snorts. “Ice cream is mediocre compared.”

“I’ve never had any.” The transfer student moves to sit on the floor and offers the bag again, and this time Georgi takes a few.

“Never? Jeez, you’re missing out. I know a great place, and in fact I have a job interview there-”

“Dammit, Alfred!” The club door swings open and a disheveled boy steps out, bag slung over his shoulder. He glares at the transfer student, Alfred, and huffs. “Please don’t interrupt my club again. We were busy with a new book!” Behind him, a boy with paler hair silently slips by and down the hallway with almost no noise, and after he leaves Vlad’s head pops up from behind the angry guy’s (presumably Arthur’s) shoulder.

Alfred smiles a bit sheepishly and scratches his neck. “Well, you told me to come get you if your club takes longer than half past.” He stands up, but before he follows Arthur down the hall he glances down at Georgi and offers a playful wink. “I’ll find you again, and you can show me that place you mentioned. Later!”

After Alfred and Arthur turn the corner, Vlad squats down next to him and raises a brow. His lips are spread in a teasing grin and the blush Georgi didn’t know he had burns hotter when he asks, “You got a hot date I don’t know about?”


	25. 25. Cut + NedCan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: How can I make the NedCan chapter warm?  
> My brain: Childhood AU.  
> Me, in tears:

Nobody touches the scary kid’s swings. Rumor among the primary school classrooms is that the last kid that touched the scary kid’s swings, Antonio, got beaten up and thrown in a puddle. To the naked eye, Antonio never looked worse for wear nor did he ever say anything about the scary kid hurting him. Given the lack of solid confirmation to his eyes, Matthew dismissed the rumor as just that. A rumor.

Of course the scary kid wouldn’t hurt somebody just for playing on the swings. If he did, he would have gotten in trouble and the teachers would have pulled him aside. He never got pulled aside, and none of the teachers ever said anything about Antonio getting hurt. It all has to be a rumor.

When he mentions it to his younger brother on the bus ride home, Alfred squawks and shakes his head rapidly. “What do you mean you don’t believe it? I saw the scary kid do it!” Matthew knows this is a lie. Alfred doesn’t have the same recess period as him and the scary kid. There’s no way he could have seen what happened between Antonio and the scary kid, if anything even did happen. Despite his best efforts to explain this to Alfred, he’s ignored. As usual.

A week after the rumor starts, Matthew decides to take matters into his own hands. He’s going to touch the scary kid’s swings. He doesn’t tell Alfred his plan; he intended to, but Alfred didn’t hear him. Oh well, Matthew figures, he’d only try and stop him. It’s probably better he doesn’t know.

Recess lets out, and immediately the scary kid makes a beeline for the swingset. Everybody else rushes for the kickball court and the slides, everybody except Matthew. He shakes his head and waves at Gilbert, whose shoulders slump as he wanders into line for kickball. They can play together tomorrow. Today, he has a mission.

The closer Matthew gets, the more his anxiety melts away and is replaced by pity. By the time he’s five feet from the scary kid, he sees a look of dejection on his face as the tips of his shoes brush through the dirt. Upon closer inspection, there appear to be a few holes in his clothes, and his hair is messy like he hasn’t had a bath.

Matthew raises a hand, breathing in deeply to relax his voice. “Um, excuse me?” To his utter surprise, the scary kid looks up and stares at him with wide eyes. His cheeks are still chubby with baby fat, but the beginning definitions of what could only be a firm jawline are there. Above his eyebrow is a scar, and Matthew almost flinches. That’s probably why everybody calls the kid scary… “Are you using that swing?” He points shyly to the empty one beside the scary kid.

It’s silent save for the screams of other children around, but eventually the scary kid shrugs and shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, “nobody’s using it. Nobody ever does, except for my sister. But she isn’t here today.”

“Can I use it?”

“Okay.” Matthew shuffles forward, kicking up a bit of dust as he sits down in the empty seat. The two of them rock slowly, watching the kickball game. When he squints, he notices Gilbert in the middle of the field with the ball in his hands, and he smiles a little. Gilbert loves to roll out the ball. He spends so much time watching the game it takes until the scary kid taps his shoulder for him to take notice.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Matthew. I… I don’t know yours either. Everybody calls you the scary kid because of the cut over your eye, and they think you hurt Antonio, so that’s all I know you by.” Perhaps that’s a mistake because the scary kid flinches and averts his eyes to the dirt. Matthew raises a hand and waves, almost in a panic. “A-ah, I don’t mean to say I think you’re scary! I think you’re really nice, and the cut makes you look super cool in my opinion.”

“I am?” A beat passes, and soon the bell indicating recess is over rings. Before either of them move, the scary kid mumbles, “... my name’s Abel. Can, uh… can we play again tomorrow?”

Matthew smiles and stands from the swing, extending a hand towards Abel. Hesitantly, he takes it and stands himself. Their eyes meet, and he offers a small smile in return. It grows even wider when Matthew says, “Yeah, yeah! Of course I wanna play with my new friend!”


	26. 26. Pregnancy + FinUkr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had something completely different in mind for this chapter, but I decided to scrap it and go with this. Honestly, I think I like this better.

“Doctor Chernenko, you’re needed in the maternity ward.”

Katya glances up into the mirror and smiles. She smooths down her hair with wet fingers and takes her two hairpins from her mouth, repositioning them before she grabs some paper towels and dries off. With a spring in her step she quickly follows the nurse that fetched her, slipping on gloves as she’s given the status of the situation. Apparently another young woman in labor, this time with twins. A giddy feeling rises in her chest as she makes a sharp right and passes through the maternity ward’s doors.

Twins are always exciting to handle, and this situation proves no different. Once Wendy Kirkland successfully pops her twins out (and what a young mother she is; if Katya remembers the clipboard information correctly, only 18), she sets to taking the vitals of the newborns, following the two nurses that took the twins.

After a quick check of her patients, Katya makes her way back towards Mrs. Kirkland’s room only to be stopped by a man in the hallway. He’s a bit shorter than her, but his hair reflects a similar sheen as hers does, and his eyes are such a bright color she can’t help but stare at them blankly. He clears his throat, snapping her out of the trance. She smiles politely and turns to fully face him, clipboard resting heavy in the crook of her arm.

“You’re Doctor Chernenko, yes? You just helped my daughter-in-law give birth, twins, and I was-”

“Wondering how they’re doing?” Katya suppresses a small laugh and nods at his embarrassed grin. “They’re fine, sir. Skin and vitals look pristine, nothing to indicate any defects. They both cried, and are breathing nicely. I’m sure you and your wife will be pleased to know your grandchildren are healthy.”

Strangely, he flinches at the mention of a wife, but before Katya can backtrack he says, “Ah, no wife for me. My ex-husband and I are, well, obviously no longer given the ex at the beginning. We’re still friends and we still raise our sons together, which is why I’m here. Our oldest’s wife, Wendy, she just had those twins you reassured me are healthy.” He laughs, and it’s so light and pleasing to her ears she almost asks him to laugh again. “No, I’m single and just a very proud grandfather. Thank you so much, Doctor Chernenko!”

“Call me Katya.”

He blinks, almost as if he’s caught off guard. As quick as it appeared, it’s replaced by joy and a small clap of his hands. “Ah, well thank you Katya! I’m Tino.” Before she can reply, a nurse taps her shoulder and tells her she’s needed. She opens her mouth to apologize, but Tino shakes his head and gestures for her to go. “I’ll be with my son and Wendy. I’ll see you later… perhaps even outside of the hospital. My treat.” Her mouth drops open, surprised at how quickly his friendliness melts into- is that flirtiness? He turns and enters Mrs. Kirkland’s room with a glint in his eye, and Katya stares at the shut door for several seconds as her feet find their own way after the nurse.

Did- did he subtly ask her out?


	27. 27. Stitches + DenBul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think you're gonna see me not write about all my rarepairs you are sadly mistaken.

All too often when Mathias comes home, he gets a once-over and a snort. “Who did you pick a fight with?”

He scratches at his cheek and half-shrugs, lips turning up in an easy grin. “Nobody. What about you?” He wraps an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders before he can duck away, and in a fluster Georgi mutters something about not wandering through life with the same reckless abandon, and that he never looks as disheveled as Mathias upon any occasion, and that the topic of discussion is what Mathias looks like and not himself. As per the usual, all he gives in return is a warm look and promise that whatever he did during the day isn’t anything to worry over.

Sitting in the hospital waiting room, Georgi gives him another once-over and raises a brow critically. “Pick a fight with the wrong person this time?”

Mathias avoids eye contact and squeezes the makeshift bandaging around his hand. “I didn’t get into a fight, y’know? I told ya when I tried to cut the flower stems like Abel showed me, I cut too far and got my hand.”

“Abel used to pick fights.” He doesn’t sound judgemental, but the inflections in his accented pronunciation is all too clear. Pride runs deeply through both Georgi’s and Abel’s veins, and that pride led to one too many disagreements between the two. Never did they let that determine whether or not Mathias was allowed his own agency to make friends and hold relationships. That’s neither of their business. Still… “It’s funny to me how you only seem to end up disheveled and now bloody after a day with him is all I’m saying.”

Fair point, but he’s wrong. Mathias says as much. “I get dirty and stuff ‘cause he needed an extra hand doing some heavy outdoors-y type work. Planting a new tree, planting crops to harvest, all of that.”

“And flower cutting comes in where, perchance?” Heavy sarcasm drips from his mouth, eyes lidded a fraction to emphasize how skeptical he feels. Always the realist, always the skeptic. Mathias wonders briefly how he manages to attract this type of person like they’re the moths to his flame. His childhood best friend Lukas is a quick-witted sarcastic guy, and Abel is a straight shooter with a bit of a wild side; tongue’s just as sharp as the next guy’s though. And now, sitting beside him is his boyfriend in all of his blunt, sardonic charm, looking at him with the full force of it.

He’s being a little too judgmental, though…

“He likes to garden, even you know that. Much as you don’t like him, you gave him some of your prized roses.”

“A decision I regret each day,” hums Georgi. He gently takes ahold of Mathias’ wrist and pulls the shoddy bandage from between his index finger and thumb. The cut pulsates as cool air hits it, blood leaking down his palm and wetting Georgi’s own hand. He groans and rewraps Mathias’ hand, wiping the blood on his pants. “You definitely need some stitches right now- nurse!” Abruptly he stands and speed walks after a nurse with a somewhat desperate look on his face, leaving Mathias to watch him as he goes.

A silly grin breaks out onto his face despite the stinging in his hand as he pushes the bandaging against it. What Georgi lacked in carefreeness he surely made up for in adorableness.


	28. 28. Luck + PortMac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I know how to characterize both parties in one of my fave rarepairs you are. Wrong.

Macau is magic. He is magic personified and it is not fair in the slightest. Every step he takes is as if he floats along the ground, his changshan disguising his legs as he walks, his hands disappearing into the sleeves as he folds his arms and offers a soft smile. When he speaks, his voice is too soft to make an impact on crowded streets or bustling casinos, but the spark of subdued mischief behind his eyes shouts louder than a storm at sea. Thin fingers, skilled at cutting cards yet unskilled at cutting ties, draw shapes in the air as he gets a bit too excited, a bit too tipsy, those same fingers pressing into a shoulder as he laughs.

Most magical, most head-turning, most captivating of all is how he always smiles and offers a hand, lips parting to greet Portugal and inquire about the quality of his trip to visit. Always dumbfounded, always caught off-guard, Portugal can only offer awkward, lopsided grins and wave off what’s asked. Even if he made the effort to try and answer, he wouldn’t trust his tongue to cooperate, numbed into silence when Macau blinks, eyes lidding a fraction as he simply dips his head and turns to lead them away from the dock.

Dare he sneak glances over his wine glass, Portugal swirls the contents lazily as he listens to Macau speak. An economic development here, a disagreement with China there, a humorous meeting with his fellow special administrative region involving fireworks and exploding trousers. Somehow, this tiny personified region manages to have so much more interesting stories in twenty years than Portugal could think of since the day he found himself cloaked in a white gown staring up at a woman he still only knows to this day to be Mãe Hispania. How does such a small region have such large tales of intrigue?

It takes ten glasses from two and a half bottles of the finest Portuguese wine before they drop their official titles. Freed from the constrictions of politics for a brief evening of intoxication, João sets his chin in the palm of his hand and gives a wide grin. “I’m lucky, you know?”

Junlin sets his own glass down and offers him a raised brow. “Not a word I often hear you describe yourself with. How so?”

“I know you.”

“Plenty of people know me, João. Not a single one describes the experience as anything akin to luck.” Briefly he hesitates. “Well, I suppose Monaco considers knowing me a thing of luck. She’s a frequent visitor of mine.”

“I believe the reason for that,” starts João, fumbling a hand across the table to brush his fingers over Junlin’s knuckles, nearly knocking over his glass of wine in the process, “is because others aren’t of the same pot of luck I am, hm?”

“And what pot of luck would that be? The only winners of pots of luck I know of reside under the neon flashes of my casinos.” Instead of retracting his hand, or moving the wine glasses as expected, Junlin turns it palm up and awkwardly interlaces their fingers. Perhaps it’s just the reflection of the overhead lights, but his eyes are alight and it makes João’s chest throb. Even the way he looks at people is magical.

“I’m lucky because I’m the only one under your spell.” He closes his eyes, taking in the beat of silence before he speaks again. “And I wouldn’t trade this for all the riches of the world.”


	29. 29. Morning + BelgCan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How could I not write the two breakfast buddies? They're so soft.

Rooming with Emma is perhaps the single greatest decision Matthew ever made in his entire life.

Desperate to cling onto warmth in today’s waking hours, his hands tighten on the hem of the comforter and he tugs it over his head. His dog makes a small boofing noise in protest and a large paw smacks his shoulder. Groaning, he mutters, “Go away Kuma,” as he rolls over and turns his back to it. Again, he receives a boof and a paw smack on his shoulder. A few quiet minutes of mind games later, he concedes and tosses the sheets off his upper body.

Kuma leans forward and sniffs at his hair. Matthew whines and shoves Kuma back, slipping his legs out from under the sheets and jabbing a finger at it. “Leave me alone.” It’s too early in the morning for him to be seriously threatening, clearly, because Kuma just pants and sniffs his finger. Abruptly, it stops and turns its head towards the open bedroom door. Its nose twitches a mile a minute, and soon Matthew picks up on the smell too.

Giddiness bubbles in his chest and replaces the annoyance at being awoken. He barely beats Kuma out the door and into the hallway where the sweet smell only grows. It’s a short trip to the moderately-sized living room and kitchen of the apartment. Matthew sets his eyes upon the gap in the wall to the kitchen. Her back turned to him, he spots a familiar figure. Her body obscures what she’s doing, but based on the smell and empty box of flour laying on the table, it’s obvious.

“Emma?” He rounds the corner and slides through the doorless entryway. Randomly saying her name is a mistaken perhaps, because she jumps and then yelps, retracting her hand to her chest. Concern covers his face as he moves forward and places a hand on her shoulder. She glances at him and offers a sunny smile, pain stitched through it. “Are you okay?”

Emma glances down at the counter where an open waffle iron sits next to a stack of freshly made waffles, as well as a bowl of batter. “Well, not exactly. You surprised me and I knocked my hand into the silly thing. I’ll be fine thou- ouff!” She stumbles to the side as Kuma bumps its head against her calves. With a half-smile, she extends her uninjured and pats its head. “Hey boy, morning to you too. Did you eat what I laid out for you?”

By the time she looks up, Matthew is digging in a cabinet. She watches curiously for a few seconds until he pulls out a tube of medicine and a bandage. Despite her minor protest at being fine, Matthew shakes his head and takes her hand in his. “Nope. You never let me get away with that excuse and you patch up my injuries. Now it’s my turn. Besides,” he grins, “the sooner you let me do this, the sooner we can enjoy breakfast.”

She sighs, but it’s with a smile she extends her hand and allows him to treat her burn. “You’re a stubborn one, Mattie.”

“Not as stubborn as you, dear.”


	30. 30. Chain + SeaKugel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the micronations. I love Kugelmugel. I love the micronations being sweet to each other. I love the micronations being sweet to Kugelmugel.
> 
> Also fuck you Kugelmugel is NB as fuck.

Wy took one. Seborga took one. Even Molossia took one! The only one left on Sealand’s list is Kugelmugel, but when he approaches them, all he gets is, “It’s not tasteful.”

Sealand tilts his head and pouts. “Tasteful?” Kugelmugel side-eyes him and nods, returning their gaze to the pad of paper on their lap. A pencil sketches furiously as their eyes dart between the pad and the birdbath several feet away. Instead of taking the silent hint to get lost, Sealand does what he does best: be consciously annoying. He leans over Kugelmugel’s shoulder and watches as they draw. “Whatcha doing?” It’s not as if he doesn’t know, but he just wants them to pay attention to him. A fellow micronation surely could understand the want for attention.

They heave a deep sigh from their chest and set the pad of paper off to the side, placing the pencil carefully on top of it. They turn back to face Sealand and cross their arms. “I’m attempting to make something for Miss Hungary. She remarked that she adored this garden and the birds, so, well…” Their cheeks tint and they stare at their shoes. “I wanted to surprise her. It- just let me be!” They huff and glance back to the birdbath where a few birds splash around. “You’re disrupting my artistic process.”

“Well, actually can I ask you something about that? About art?”

Instantly, Kugelmugel locks eyes with Sealand and nods rapidly. “Absolutely! Please, please do engage me about the arts! I’d love to make your existence better through my talent.”

The unconscious jab makes his eyelid twitch, but instead of complaining Sealand smiles and holds out his palm. The keychain he tried to offer them earlier sits in the middle of it. When they glance up at him questioningly, he says, “Show me how to make an artistic one of these so I can give you an artistic one!”

Their eyes lid a fraction as they look back down at the keychain. It’s crudely made, even Sealand can admit to that, but he tried his best! Nobody can fault him for being lazy or undetermined.

Kugelmugel quickly snatches the keychain out of his palm, making Sealand gape in surprise, looking to Kugelmugel for an answer. They don’t give one, instead turning the keychain over in their fingers as they examine it. Their sharp, critical gaze makes him a bit self-conscious; maybe he made a mistake. Perhaps Kugelmugel doesn’t want to be his friend, or accept a gift from him…? For sure he expected them to understand rejection and loneliness, the both of them being micronations and all.

As quickly as they snatched it away, Kugelmugel fastens the keychain onto their art supplies bag, making a point to not look anywhere near Sealand. A few moments of silence echo between them, the birds chirping and splashing. Eventually they sigh and spare  glance towards him. “Don’t take this the wrong way. What you made me, it’s not…” They purse their lips and stare hard at the birdbath, cheeks beginning to glow once again. They smack their cheeks lightly and inhale before continuing. “You don’t have to redo it. This is… it’s  _ your _ creative spirit. I can try and appreciate this style of art, even if it is, uh… untasteful. Thank you…” Sealand begins to break out in a grin, but when he tries to hug them, they whine and elbow him in the shoulder. “Now leave! I have to finish this for Miss Hungary.”


	31. 31. Passport + Familial CanAme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so maybe calling this an 80 SHIPS compilation is a mistake because this isn't written or intended to be romantic or shippy. Alfred and Matthew are brothers and very good brothers at that. Shame on you if you try to twist this.
> 
> This chapter also brought to you by very minorly mentioned PruCan.

“Why do I need a passport to visit my brother? It’s ridiculous!”

Sitting in detaining at a border patrol base, Alfred huffs a hot breath of air, blowing his bangs slightly. His arms are crossed, his chair balanced on its back two legs as he leans backwards, one foot pressing on the edge of the screwed down table. Across from him, two RCMP officers give him equally disdainful looks. One of them is on a cell phone, calling some higher up most likely. Alfred did (accidentally on purpose) elbow an officer that came up behind him with no warning. He probably can’t just walk away from an assault, no matter how accidentally on purpose it was.

“What’s your brother’s name again?” the officer not on the phone asks. He’s the one Alfred elbowed, and based on his black eye and scowl he isn’t keen on forgiving him anytime soon. So be it.

Alfred rolls his eyes and sets the chair back down on all fours. “Matthew. Matthew Williams.”

“And your name is,” he glances down at the ID he took from Alfred’s wallet, “Alfred  _ Jones _ . Why are your last names different if you’re related?”

“Different fathers.” For added effect, he mutters, “Duh, idiot. What else could it be?”

The officer sitting at the table with him squints before glancing back at the one on the phone. “What’s he saying?”

The one on the phone moves his mouth away from the speaker, eyes wide. “He said he’s coming down to check for himself. Something about believing this guy,” he jerks a thumb at Alfred, “is stupid enough to assault an RCMP officer and then not apologize for it. Also the only guy stupid enough to not know he needs a passport to cross the border.”

“Hey! I’m only stupid enough to forget my passport at home, not stupid enough to forget I need one.”

They all sit in a tense silence, Alfred occasionally muttering about how ridiculous the whole situation is, the officers pointedly ignoring him. After about ten minutes of tension, there’s a knock at the detaining room’s door. The officer that made the phone call opens the door, and Alfred’s jaw drops.

Removing his hat as he enters the room, dressed in an RCMP uniform, Matthew looks at him with clear as day annoyance.

“Matthew?”

“Hello, Alfred.” His lips twist as he turns towards the two officers. “Am I to understand he did that to your eye, Marquis?” The bruised one nods and scowls at Alfred, who sticks his tongue out in return. “Cut that out, Alfred! I can’t believe- no, scratch that.” He heaves a sighs. “I absolutely can believe this. You’re the only person I could ever believe this out of.”

“What about your boyfriend?” Alfred leans forward on his elbows, setting his chin down on the back of his right hand. “He’s kind of wild, especially the times we hung out. He could-”

“The difference,” Matthew gestures the two officers out, shutting the door behind them, “between you and Gilbert is that Gilbert wouldn’t wildly swing his elbow into somebody’s eye. He’s a lot smarter than that.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“Yes. I’m also calling in my only favor to my CO in order for them to drop this whole thing. God, why do you always do this?”

Alfred grins. “Isn’t it second nature for little brothers to cause problems for their big brothers?” Despite how hard he tries not to, Matthew cracks a smile and shakes his head, opening the detaining room’s door.

“Never change, Alfred. I’ll be back in a second.”


	32. 32. Sauna + NZFin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was original going to be FinCan but then I realized the last chapter involved Canada so I asked my friends for a different Finland rarepair. And hey, NZ needs more love.  
> In case you can't tell, Kaelin is NZ and Jett is Australia.

The only words Tino can think of to define how Kaelin looks aren’t quite nice or flattering, but the way his mouth opens and shuts reminds him so much of a fish that he can’t help but giggle behind his hand.

“You don’t have to be so worried about all of it, y’know? I run this day spa,” he gestures vaguely in a circle to encompass the grounds, “so I marked that this sauna in particular is closed to the general public. I know you’ve never been in one of these before, but I didn’t take you for such a shy person!”

“I’m not usually,” he admits after a pause. His fluster could be from the steam, but Tino would bet the day spa’s deed on it being from embarrassment. It’s a strange look on Kaelin; when Tino had visited him in New Zealand, he had paraded on the beach in swim trunks with no sign of this shrinking violet act. What about a sauna is so different than a beach? He considers asking, but Kaelin continues speaking, which keeps his question at bay. “It’s probably the heat making me light-headed and more squirmy.”

Concern flashes over Tino’s face. “Are you alright? Do you need to get out?”

“Jett seems to think I do,” he snorts. Him joking must mean he’s doing fine, the unsubtle jab at his brother proving that well enough. Tino’s shoulders relax and he smiles. “He gets on me about getting off my family’s farmland and going somewhere. Well, I showed him. Here I am in Finland, sitting in a towel in a sauna with my best online friend.”

“When you say it like that,” laments Tino with a raised brow, “it makes me sound quite creepy. Like I, the Internet pervert, invited you halfway across the globe to get you all but naked in a hot steamy room. I’m not sure how people would take to that.”

“My oldest brother would have a fit,” muses Kaelin, pressing his back flush against the sauna wall. “Arthur hates technology. He can’t even figure out his iPhone.” His eyes bug slightly to emphasize the ridiculousness of his claim, and Tino snickers behind a hand.

“Well, my ex was similar. Only his fingers were too big to use a touch screen correctly. Only thing they were good for was building stuff.” He pauses, the wheels in his brain turning. “Kaelin, can I ask you something weird?”

“Nothing is weirder than me being half naked next to you the first time we meet here in Finland.”

“Fair enough.” Tino rolls his eyes before locking them on Kaelin’s. “Is having my ex work for my day spa as a handyman weird? Like, I give him his paycheck and we talk to each other everyday. I can’t tell if that’s weird for exes to do.”

“Hmm…” Kaelin rubs at his chin, exaggerating his questioning noise which makes Tino shake his head and playfully elbow his shoulder. The sudden brush of their steam-soaked skin connecting makes both of them almost jump out of their towels. Instead of doing that, Tino scoots a few inches away and smiles unevenly.

“Sorry-”

“No, it’s okay!” Kaelin waves a nervous hand, face shading too dark to be from the heat of the sauna. If he ventured a guess, Tino would say his face mirrors his friend’s. After thinking the word, a weird taste flows over his tongue. Friend. Absently his hand grabs the elbow that touched Kaelin, eyes turned to stare at a wall.

Are friends’ hearts supposed to leap in their chests at a mere brush of skin like that? Tino steals a glance out of the corner of his eye at Kaelin, who busies himself with the hem of his towel.  _ Probably not _ , he guesses. Then again… a small smile takes over his lips and he closes his eyes. Who cares if it’s not supposed to be like that? He certainly doesn’t.


End file.
